The Season's Trilogy III: Season's End
by Boys Do Like Girls
Summary: Skyrim, 4E 212. When Jon Stormcloak recieves a letter from a King he once counted as a friend, but now hardly knows, his life is torn apart. Thrust into the deadly politics of the royal court, he and his family will have to abandon their ideals if they hope to survive. But in the South, the Thalmor advance and a broken Empire is all that is left between them, and all of Tamriel...
1. Prologue

**The new story.**

**The thanks for the last chapter of Season's Ruler: To Dicasy, thanks for the Story Favourite! To DragonXander, thanks for the review. I'm glad you like who was crowned King, and Balgruuf's speech. I'm afraid you'll have a while to wait until the 'King' actually comes to light, but feel free to speculate on the new forum. As for the Thalmor, well, you won't have to wait long to see, but I suspect that it will play a far smaller role than you originally think. To Lord Dragorn, thanks for the Follower. To RavenTheHunter, thanks for the Story Favourite! To Darth Rabbits. thanks for the Story Follower. To Delphine hater, thanks for the reviews! I'm really pleased that you liked the last ending, and all I can say is that if you pay for a flight to England, then sure, I'll meet you. As for the Ezio Auditore idea, I'm not sure about that. It wouldn't fit into my story at all, and I have a lot of important stuff already going on, but thanks for the idea anyway. **

**Okay, first off, I just want to thank my brother for putting in some really great ideas into the whole Trilogy. I never credited him before, because I, er… forgot. To HereLies, thanks for the great editing job and for letting me run some crappy ideas by you. **

**Anyway, this is it. I'm going to introduce lots of new POV, so things should get interesting. My personal favourites are Thorek Silver-Blood and Nelkir White. But, you'll see those guys as time goes by. Also, I set up a new forum and hopefully, seeing as I want to get you guys biting your nails as the plot unfolds, you'll use it! I also have a new poll up, so when you see a new character (or an original one) you like, vote. You have two choices. **

**Anyway, this is my love child, this story, so I _really_ hope its going to knock your socks off (eventually). **

**Prologue **

**Carl Ulster Stormcloak**

**Carl Ulster Stormcloak watched from **the shadowsas Jon Stormcloak knelt before the High King to receive his Jarldom officially. He looked on in frustration as the titles were called out, and his heraldry named. It wasn't right, not really. Uncles came before Bastards, didn't they?

The ceremony looked to go on for a while so Ulster suppressed any frustration and anger he might have at seeing his Jarldom being passed on to his nephew and stalked down the corridors of Whiterun, looking for some fresh air to clear his head. Dragonsreach was large, but eventually he made his way out into a side balcony and drew in deep breathes to calm his nerves as he stared out across the great city, his anger rising.

Thirty-three years ago Ulfric had left for the Greybeards. Unbeknown to him, his Mother had borne another son after he left; Ulster Stormcloak. He had been raised as heir for fourteen years before leaving to find the glory needed in a military victory to secure his place as Heir. It wasn't hard to find bandits to fight with in Eastmarch, and he had won a Carlship for his bravery, but he still wasn't satisfied. His Stormcloak nature required him to fight. It was like a great yearning, a feeling he couldn't quite shake. So instead he had left Skyrim entirely, with his own army of Stormcloak men, heading for Summerset Isles to battle the Thalmor. Naturally, it was a disaster. They were unprepared, stupid and naïve. His men had been slaughtered in the night. Just thinking about it made the fear rush back into his mind, submerging all other thought but the need to escape. Somehow, he had, but with grave wounds, no money and a place of guilt and shame in his heart for his men. He was responsible for throwing away their lives away, and it haunted him, and so for a long time, nothing had really mattered.

Eventually, the need to return home reasserted itself. After all, Father was getting old by his reckoning, and Mother had been in her late thirties when she had died delivered Ulster. Ulfric, the brother he had never known, was probably dead, killed for his part in the Markarth Incident, and even so he would have never thought his mother would be able to bear another child. Of course, he could have looked in the Stormcloak records of births, but from what Ulster had been told about his brother, he was impatient and would never have bothered to search for a sibling he was sure he never had. He was the last sire of Clan Stormcloak, or so he had thought.

Years had followed in the wilderness, living like a dog, as a mercenary, trying to buy his way home. And there he had eventually ending up in the Legion, as a recruit. He had raised himself to a Tribune, and finally been posted in Skyrim. There, he had finally met his brother, in the Battle for Solitude. The fight had already been lost, but he fought anyway, loyal to the army he belonged to, and lucky enough to escape, yet not ever lucky enough to get back to Windhelm.

But now, here he was, in Whiterun, ready to confront his nephew. Ready to go, Ulster left the balcony, his head clear now, and returned to the King's ceremonies. The Jarls had finished renewing their oaths of loyalty, and were beginning to head off. With a start, Ulster realised that this was it; he was going to regain his Jarldom!

Jon Stormcloak left the hall with a boy of perhaps nine and a women, making his way through a side corridor, probably to an apartment reserved for Jarls. Soon, Ulster would be sleeping in there. It was almost too good to think about properly. He followed Jon, until they came to an empty corridor. Ulster knew that this was his chance.

As quick as he could, he moved forward and touched Jon's shoulder, lightly. His nephew turned, his hand on his sword before shock enveloped his face. With a start, Ulster realised that he must be seeing him as his own brother, Ulfric. They were alike, and Jon knew nothing about another son.

'No, I am not Ulfric,' Ulster said quickly, to disperse any supernatural tendency quickly.

A tight, and weary look crossed his face, dark with suspicion. His family also looked shocked, and the women moved close to Jon, presumably for protection. 'Who are you?'

'Ulster Stormcloak, Ulfric's brother. I am your uncle.'

'What do you mean? Ulfric had no brothers.'

Ulster sighed. It was understandable, but Jon's slowness still annoyed him. 'I was born after Ulfric left. He knew nothing about me.'

Jon stepped forward, composed again, to look more closely at Ulster's face. 'Assuming I believe you?'

'You don't have to really,' Ulster shrugged. Jon might have checked the birth records eventually, and it was better to get his existence out in the opening now, when Jon's appointment was still fresh. 'I just want you to know, and I have something to ask you.'

Jon worked his jaw, glancing at his family before replying. 'Speak then.'

Ulster felt a twinge of annoyance at Jon's commanding tone. 'I am your uncle, you, for better use of a word, are my brother's natural child. I am first in line of the succession.'

Jon nodded, as if he understood now. 'So, what do you want? The Jarldom?'

'Aye.' It sounded stupid now that Ulster thought about it. He decided it would be best to show him that he bore Jon no ill will. 'I would of course let you and your family stay in the Palace. I'll give you a Thanehood, and make you my Heir until a son is born to me.'

'You would have me give up my Jarldom. My Father's only gift to me?' he looked sceptical and angry. This wasn't going well.

'I am the true heir. Your father gave up his right to the Jarldom when he joined the Greybeards.'

'But the people raised him up,' Jon countered. They stood still, watching each other for a while before Jon staring speaking again.

'Why don't you join me and my family? Alsfur would be pleased to have a grandfather, and I would give _you_ the Thanehood.' Jon waited for Ulster's answer, his face frank and unyielding.

It wasn't right though. Ulster felt cheated. All his life he had been left to the mercy of foreign forces, never allowed to get what he wanted, even when he had the full right to it! His anger clouded his thoughts now.

'I don't want your pity! I am the true heir,' he spat out. Before he could reel it back in, he said; 'And I will have it, before the end, even if it means killing all your family, and you!'

Violent anger contorted Jon's face and before his wife could stop him he leaped forward. His hand went to his sword and he kicked Ulster down, levelling the point at his throat. 'Never threaten my family, do you understand! NEVER!'

His wife rushed to his side and started talking to him rapidly. Jon seemed to calm with the words.

Finally, he said; 'if you weren't family, I would ram this point through your throat, but as it is, I'll let you go.' He stepped off Ulster and sheathed his weapon. 'Go now, you dog.' And with that he picked up the boy and left, with his wife at his side, leaving his uncle sprawled out on the floor.

Now, Ulster felt a mixture of guilt, rage and disappointment. He had never even thought that Jon would refuse. But then, he had been naïve. A mixture of self pity for himself and hate towards his nephew emerged, fuelled by jealousy.

A voice startled him from his thoughts. 'You want that Jarldom, right?'

Ulster felt a stab of embarrassment that someone had seen the confrontation and he quickly got up to see a small man, an Imperial, leaning against the wall. He had dark curly hair, a slight figure, and a face made for joking. That said, as he turned, his eyes revealed darker qualities.

'Well, do you, mortal?'

'Who are you to call me mortal, you Imperial!' Ulster burst out, directing his pent up rage at someone. .

'Me?' The man looked pleased to have been asked. 'I'm Clovius. Well, no not really. I'm actually known the world over as Clavicus Vile, Lord of Power, Conjuration, Wishes and Bargains.' Ulster looked shocked and the Daedra pressed forward with a grin. 'So, ready to make a deal?'


	2. Act I: Eleven Years Later

**The next chapter. It's time to get going with this story now. I just want to say one thing: review! Just put down one word, or you never know. Ulster may come and tell you that that new game you were saving for is actually his because your father sacrificed all his money when he went to Australia. You never know… **

**Anyway, the thanks to those without accounts. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! This is a great time period and as for your request, I can't promise anything. Sorry. (Also, what does cla ICU's mean?) To Jasmine R. Evans, thanks for the Story Follower! To Badger2430, thanks for the and Story favourite and Story Follower as well! To Seax, thanks for the Story Favourite! To CupNoodleSoup, thanks for the Story Follower. To Tyr'amun, thanks for the Story favourite. Thanks to all you guys and of course those I've already sent PM messages to. By the way, General 77, if you're reading this, I've sent you PM messages. Check your mailbox! Anyway, review guys!**

**Part I  
**

_**Eleven Years Later**_

**Idgrod, the Younger**

**She woke, sweating. Night air** still poured through her open window, but the heir to Morthal didn't feel comfortable. It had just happened again; the dream.  
Idgrod didn't dream, except for when it was _the dreams_. She got out of her bed and walked to the window, which looked down on Morthal's main square.  
She studied the town, as she was prone to do in her more restless moments, as she did now. It was quiet as always; Morthal had never been the most prosperous capital of the Hold's. Only a dog's bark broke the silence and Idgrod sunk back into a chair by the window. She didn't know what she was waiting for; shadows on horse, thundering through a town? They never came. She wasn't sure she wanted them to come, but it still dominated her restless hours, and she couldn't shake it. Not now, not ever.  
Idgrod pulled a sleeping fur over her black shift and snuggled into the chair, letting the warmth insulate her in a tight cocoon. She began to reflect on her dream as she always did in a vain attempt to understand it. It had shown a dark field and on it a dragon, massive and silver, surrounded by dark hunters. It tried to fight back, but eventually a spear was thrust through its heart, killing it with a great roar that had shook the field and woken Idgrod with a start.  
She had no idea what it meant, or if it was actually important. While it was true that the dragons had returned some ten years before, she couldn't see how the death of one affected her. Perhaps it signalled the end of the dragons forever? That would certainly rock Tamriel. After all, dragons had always existed, if not physically, but the real death of them would be felt. Still, that didn't seem right and Idgrod put aside the niggling thought.  
Light was beginning to crack through the darkness and she estimated that it was only an hour or so until light. In Skyrim, light and darkness came and went quickly.  
Idgrod tried to get back to sleep but as with all of her 'dreams' she found it difficult after one of them. Her vision became a little darker in an imitation of sleep, but she felt too 'alive', like she was ready to fight an entire army by herself. Idgrod had once tried to burn off the energy by walking around Morthal. She hadn't told her mother of course. If she had found out that Idgrod had been walking around the town, then the guards posted by her door would have been increased and a patrol sent around the hall. She could get past them if she wanted, but it was easier to keep her mother out of her dream… _problems._

That said her Mother was normally very good when it came to their families… unique abilities. In any case, no matter what Idgrod did she still stayed charged with energy and it made it impossible to actually get back to sleep. So instead Idgrod resigned herself to a another lost night.

**When morning did finally come, **Idgrod pushed off the furs and stretched, her body stiff after sitting in an uncomfortable position for such a long time. She quickly moved to her dresser and changed into a dark green dress, made of a soft silk. She pulled on high, elegant leather boots and supple gloves. She even attached a bronze handled dagger to her belt. She was going out today, and therefore needed to set some kind of impression for the smallfolk.

She came down the steps and into the dining room of Highmoon Hall. It was set off to the right of the main throne room and contained the steps to the upstairs living quarters and bedrooms. In comparison it was modest, even austere, compared to the great chambers of The Palace of Kings or Dragonsreach, but as opposed to the homes of most Hjaalmarch Nords, it was a castle. The dining room was large, with a long table in the middle covered by a mint green cloth, threaded with black, the colours of Morthal. Bronze candlestick holders lined the walls.

Idgrod took her seat on her Mother's left, while her Father, Alsfur, took his seat on her right as her Steward and husband. Her brother, Joric, wasn't present. _I didn't expect him to be_, she reflected gloomily. Her brother also had 'dreams' but he was far less adept at controlling them.

Her Mother, Jarl Idgrod of Clan Ravencrone, sat at the head in an elegant seat, one of the few luxuries they had. Her black hair, like Idgrod's own, was heavily streaked with grey but then she was already in her fifties, an old woman by Tamriel standards, having given birth to Idgrod herself very late, in her thirties at least. It was likely that she wouldn't survive another winter. But then she might; Mother always surprised them. Her pale skin was heavily wrinkled, and she sat hunched in her chair. Her voice also had a scratch to it, but she still insisted on ruling the Hold without Idgrod or Alsfur's help.

She was talking now. 'Idgrod, what do you plan today?' she asked as she started on her breakfast.

The younger Idgrod was careful not to give too much of her plans away, or Mother might forbid it. Although it was easy to get past her, but Gorm, her Housecarl, was trickier. As Housecarl he was one of the best Carl's, (the equivalent of a medieval Knight) in the Hold, and he was sworn to protect the Jarl and her family. This, it seemed, also included curbing Idgrod's rebellious nature.

'I planned to go into town, Mother.' Idgrod told her carefully.

'You're in town. Why go anywhere else?' Her Mother's eyes focused on her intently.

'Er, I wanted to see a friend.'

The Jarl considered it. 'Maybe. Who is it?'

'Just a friend.'

'Just a friend,' her Mother echoed to Alsfur, who was also watching intently.

'I'm not sure, Illy. It might be dangerous.' 'Illy' was her Father's stupid name for his little girl. Normally she complained, but now she needed something so she didn't say anything.

'It's just a friend.' They kept their gaze on her. 'Fine, I was going to see Djurien.' They sank back. Djurien was the son of a respected Carl, his father having fought in several wars and raids, including the Civil War on the Empire's side under the direct command of Jarl Stormcloak, or so he boasted. Idgrod was sceptical, after all not just _anyone_ served the Dragonborn, but Djurien was chivalrous, true and understanding. Idgrod knew that her parents were thinking succession, and Djurien was the perfect match for the heir to Hjaalmarch.

'Fine. It sounds good to me. Be careful though. Do you want a guard?' her Mother asked.

'I'll manage.' Idgrod told her, icily. Her Mother leaned back, judging whether that had been a direct attack on her, but she decided to let it pass.

Idgrod quickly finished and rushed out to the sharp, early morning air. Morthal's main square wasn't much of one. It was muddy and wet, but the road that led through it was well lit by torches at night. The main town sprawled off to Idgrod's left, a mass of buildings which eventually led to the bridge that spanned Hjaal River.

Idgrod exited the longhouse and made her way to the stables, where a groom was already saddling her horse. She thanked him with a smile before pulling herself up gracefully and guiding it out into the main square of Morthal. It was a bleak day, as always, and the clouds were heavy overhead, adding to her already troubled mind. The dream still had her on edge, and it was hard to shake the feeling that she had just seen something important, even if she didn't understand it.

She started riding through the town, making for a small farm on the outskirts of town where Djurien's family lived. As she rode, Idgrod took a closer look around Morthal. It was a large town, as they go, but smaller than somewhere such as Falkreath. Marshland surrounded it, and many of the sturdy houses were built above small patches of the stuff. As a result, stone was rarely seen, and the main road through the town was little more than a glorified mud track. It left Idgrod with an annoyed, embarrassed feeling, but at the moment there was little she could do. Even when she did become Jarl, it was going to be difficult, as Hjaalmarch wasn't known as the most economically developed of the Holds. Even so, she had big plans after her succession. She could turn this hold into one of the greatest in all of Skyrim with the right touch.

Her horse trekked up the hill that was located on Morthal's south side and out of the town. The air was even worse here, if that was possible, but going south led to the richer farmlands of the Holds. Not good farmlands, but richer. Idgrod made way for the peasants who were trekking towards Morthal. She didn't see the point of hurting people who were already under enough hardship; her being on a horse already made it obvious who was in charge. Horses were a fairly rare commodity in Morthal.

Djurien's house wasn't that far from the town, only a good twenty minutes. They actually owned a 'town house', little more than a glorified shack, in Morthal, but for obvious reasons they preferred to live at their farm.

The place itself had been given to Djurien's father after his service years ago and the estate was now passed down from father to son. The rank they belonged to was 'landed Carl', where the Carl promised to fight for the Jarl, in this case directly, as opposed to through one of the Thanes that they lived under, as was more common. Djurien was training to become a Carl, but until then he helped his father and their sparse servants in tilling their salty ground. That said, it was one of the better patches so close to Morthal.

As Idgrod rode closer she saw Djurien in the field, as she had predicted, tilling the earth. He was dressed in a light white shirt and dark breeches with bare feet. His shock of light blond hair was cut fairly short, but strands still fell across his face as he worked, and his powerfully muscled body moved under his shirt. Idgrod allowed herself a moment to admire the site before moving closer.

'Djurien, are you ready to go?'

He looked up through narrow eyes. 'Idgrod?' He looked around, before nodding. 'I could do with a break.' Without further ado he made his way to the main house, a little distance away. Idgrod followed on her horse.

Djurien glanced up at her. 'Make me walk, eh?'

Idgrod smiled down at him. 'Of course not.' With a quick movement she dismounted and started leading her horse.

With a smile, Djurien started talking. 'So, we've managed to save the last of the grain from the rains. You know what it does to the marshland,…'

Idgrod nodded, listening intently. Djurien knew more than he should about farming, and made it seem more interesting than it was. A perfect mix in her opinion. He entered the house, and she followed, looking around. Djurien's father, Lars, came round the corner. He too, like his son, was a powerfully built man, his own light blond hair turning almost imperceptibly to grey slowly.

Lars inclined his head. 'My Lady, it is a pleasure. May I ask your purpose?'

Idgrod smiled. 'I'm only here for your son,' she assured him. 'Taxes aren't due for another month.'

Lars looked relieved, and his expression of distaste was replaced with a look of satisfaction, which he tried to hide. 'Right, of course.' He turned to find his son. 'Get out here, the Jarl's daughter is waiting for you!'

Djurien appeared with tough leather boots, a long coat that reached to his shins and a longsword by his side. 'No need to rush me, Father, she will be serviced eventually.'

Despite herself, Idgrod blushed, but Lars looked annoyed. 'Enough of your tongue, my boy. This is the Jarl's daughter.'

He shrugged. 'They all look the same to me.' Djurien glanced at her. 'No offence, of course.'

'None taken.' She knew that Djurien was just doing this to annoy his father. He wasn't always so caviar.

'Let's go then, my Lady.' He took two bows from the side of the house and a bunch of arrows. He led her from the house and round it, into the woods facing its back.

They often went hunting together. Djurien was a good shot, and it gave Idgrod the time needed to clear her mind after living in Highmoon Hall. Also, she had found that the other Nord made good company, and she found him easy to talk to.

They started off slowly, shooting casually. Naturally Djurien got the only kill, on a young buck, and he had it on his back as they strolled through the woods now. Suitably isolated, Idgrod felt like she could open up to him.

'My brother's getting worse.' Idgrod was referring to Joric, her younger brother.

'How is he?' Djurien was a good listener, and never said anything impatient when talking with her.

'Joric's been in bed for five days now. We keep him inside, but I think the townspeople are beginning to wonder.'

'Screw 'em, them.' He hit a bird, but he didn't pick it up. The deer was enough.

Idgrod smiled again. 'It's not fair on them, really. They deserve a strong, able leader.'

Djurien turned to face her, putting his hands on her shoulders. 'You will make a great Jarl. You have all those plans with, you know, those things…'

'You mean the farming techniques,' Idgrod suggested, saving him.

'Right, of course, those. You know, they'll be great. This Jarldom will rival Whiterun soon.'

'I think we might find out soon whether that will actually prove true.'

Djurien looked concerned. 'What do you mean?'

'Mother's getting worse as well.'

The other Nord thought carefully, before looking back down at her. 'Is that a bad thing?'

Idgrod thought carefully. 'Maybe not…'

'It may be heartless, but I think the Jarldom would be alright if she died. You are the breath of fresh air it needs.'

'Do you think you so?'

Djurien's face softened. 'Yes.'

Idgrod nodded and they broke apart. The son of a Carl picked up his bow. 'Anyway, when you become Jarl, I get to marry you,' he joked.

'Yeah,' she agreed absently. It was a joke between them, sprung from their parent's naked ambitions, but honestly, would it be so bad to marry Djurien? The answer was obvious; she would love to, and she already knew that he thought the same. It was too many times she has caught him staring at her hungrily, and he enjoyed their talks far too much anyway.

'I guess we ought to get back,' he told her.

'Yes, of course.' They started trudging back, Djurien talking about when he was going to become a Carl, while Idgrod listened, thinking absently about her family. The other Nord had it easier than he realised.

They said their goodbyes, and Idgrod rode back to Morthal, lost in thought again. Normally Mother was quite good at helping her through her visions, but she didn't want to talk to her at the moment. It seemed, however, that that was not going to be possible. She was waiting for Idgrod when she got back.

'I have news,' she said without preamble, holding a letter at she sat in her throne. Her big Housecarl, Gorm, stood in the shadows silently.

'And,' Idgrod asked slowly, as he crossed the room, unwillingly to talk to her mother right now.

'The King is calling all the Jarls to Whiterun.'

'Indeed,' she said again, uncertain now.

'I want you to go in my place.'

'Me!' Idgrod was taken aback. 'Why me?'

'I'm too old to go tramping around Skyrim now. You are my Heir,' she reminded her daughter angrily.

'Yes, of course. So, you want me to go?'

'Aye,' she agreed irritably. 'You'll be gone at least two months. Say your goodbyes, my daughter and pack up. You're going to meet the King.'

And like that, she was going to court.

**The end was a little weird, but oh well. The next chapter is going to feature one of my favourite POV's, so it should be good. Please review, it's how I survive. Let's really get this story loads of reviews! **


	3. Silver Blood

**This POV is undoubtedly one of my favourites, perhaps even my favourite. I've got some interesting things lined up for him through the course of this story. **

**To all those guys without accounts. To DeltaCortis, thanks for the Story Favourite for all my stories. To Shadowstar125, thanks you also for the Story Follower! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm happy that you liked it, even if it was a little slow. Hopefully the next chapter will be a little faster. A sex scene between Jon and Ysold? That's a good idea. If I put it in, it wouldn't be any time soon because it wouldn't quite fit but I'll put it to the people. Thanks guys, and to all you guys on the accounts. **

**On Delphine hater's suggestion, would you guys like to see a sex scene between Jon and Ysold? This story is rated M, but if I did it, the scene wouldn't be anytime soon, but I would put it in. What do you think? Put your opinion in your reviews (if you write one. Which brings me to that. Can you please?)**

**This chapter is coming out quickly because the archive didn't pot my story as updated so that annoyed me, and also I've written a lot of these a few months ago. The next chapter. These POV's are really branching out this time. **

**Thorek Silver-Blood**

**Father was furious. Thorek came** down the steps that led to the Mournful Throne, the seat of power in Markarth, with his uncle Thonar Silver-Blood following, frustrated.  
'Well, you could have said it with a little more grace,' his uncle told him as he reached Thorek.  
'He needed to be told,' his nephew said, running his hand through his long, straight hair. _It will begin to thin eventually_, Thorek reckoned. He would be bald like his father and Thonar by the time he was thirty, maybe forty. He was twenty-one now, and he couldn't help but dread every year that passed by.  
'I know my brother,' Thonar continued, 'and you know your father. Thongvor was always used to be listened to, but rarely disobeyed.'  
'It's an honourable position!'  
'But one that bereaves him of an heir,' his uncle countered. 'You know as well as anyone when it comes to my brother and the family's reputation, he's a stubborn as an ox.'  
'Right, I understand,' Thorek said a little moodily.  
His uncle's voice took a steely edge. 'No, you don't.' He put a hand on Thorek's shoulder, even though his nephew was a good half a head taller. 'The Silver-Blood family owes a lot to Thongvor. Before, we were powerful, but still in service to the Oath's. Now, we rule Markarth. Your father sacrificed everything for you. Think about that.' And then his uncle left Thorek, who was shocked by his uncle's sudden change in allegiance and still trying to work out what had just happened.  
Thorek glared after Uncle, before glancing back in the direction of his father, somewhere far behind him on the throne, and shook his head before beginning to make his way out to the city, his sword swinging on its silver buckle.  
Thorek made his way to the temple of Dibella, the only Divine present in the city, trying to forget the events that had just transpired in the throne room. He always found it easier to relax in the presence of the Divines.  
The city of Markarth was large though, and it took him time to navigate the city. Even so, the Reach was even bigger; the Hold the Silver-Blood family ruled over now after the Forsworn attack that killed the whole of Clan Oath.  
It had been a bloody night. Thorek himself had fought the invaders, and his silver blade had been dripping with blood by the time he had managed to reach Understone Keep, the main castle of Markarth. But by that time the Oath's were dead, including Jarl Igmund. However, it was these actions that had attracted the attention of the High King himself in the choice of his new Housecarl.  
Thorek had been chosen to take the position; he had received the letter this morning. Of course he had gone straight to Father to tell him the news, unusually excited as he was. _Obviously that hadn't gone well. _Thorek reflected. _What a waste of time. _

The Housecarl to the King was the main protector of His Grace. He commanded the city guard and any of the King's other protectors. He had a rank in league with the King's Steward and often commanded his armies in battle. He also had the power to command any other Housecarl in the realm, provided his order was justified. It was a position Thorek had dreamed of his whole life, but then again who hadn't?

He trudged his way across the city, past wet alleys and dirty buildings and up the steps that led to the Temple to Dibella. Markarth was an old dwarven city, partly converted, and as a result it was a sprawling mess of power and corruption. Thorek himself worshiped Akatosh, the powerful Lord of the Gods known as the Divines, who represented invincibility and endurance. The temple was large and well build, elegant as the goddess it represented with its bronze inlays and a whole roof made of the metal. _But bronze still isn't the match of silver. _

Thorek made his way up the steps and pushed past a few worshippers into the temple itself. It was large, with a font in the middle for blessings, but the doors at the other end were closed; _how am I supposed to get to the shrine?_ he thought angrily.

The Silver-Blood looked for someone to answer his question, spotting a priest nearby. He went over to her, but she was already answering other faithful peasants, but Thorek was a Silver-Blood, so the same rules didn't apply.

He grabbed her and turned her around from the other peasants. She looked a little startled, but her haughty manner soon resurfaced.

'Yes?' she asked curtly.

'Is the Temple open?'

'The new Sybil is being chosen. The Temple is open to no one.' The Sybil was the leader of the temple. Thorek let out a breath of frustration.

'When will it be open then?'

'When the Sybil is found, my lord.' She looked over Thorek and made a decision. 'Of course, we shall need someone to collect her when the Sybil is chosen. You look like you could do, but will you?'

_Of course I could do it, _Thorek thought. Instead he said; 'I don't have time for trivial matters.'

The priestess's eyes flashed with anger. 'It is no trivial task.'

'It is to me. Find her then; I'll come later.' With that he turned away and left the building, instead intending to reach the Silver-Blood Inn for a drink. He thought nothing more of the incident and kept walking down the streets, until he reached the inn, a nice place. He stepped inside and let the heat wash over him. Thorek made for the bar, where the innkeeper was cleaning a cup with a cloth.

'A drink for a Silver-Blood,' Thorek told him.

The innkeeper looked over him before turning to get him an ale. Thorek took the drink and looked around. It wasn't long before he found trouble.

A Nord was harassing a Breton woman, accusing her of being a Forsworn agent. The Forsworn were the native reachmen, a race of Bretons who were thrust out of their homes by the Nords, like Thorek himself. The Nord had started pushing her, along with his friends and Thorek watched with interest as they started ripping off her dress and pushed the screaming woman to the floor. The inn was empty save Thorek himself, the group of Nords and the innkeeper. 

Thorek turned his attention to the group itself, watching them intently. They shoved the Breton woman into the next room suddenly, and she started screaming louder. It would appear that they ahd become bored with fondling. His friends stood by the door, looking in and joking.  
Thorek looked at the innkeeper with a questioning look, but he just shrugged and continued cleaning. 'Not my problem.'  
'You're the innkeeper, in your inn! Of course it's your problem.'  
'I have nothing to do with those reachmen, so you either put up with it or get out.'  
Thorek gave the innkeeper a withering glare before he got off his stool and strode over to the door, where the Nords were crowding. The woman was still screaming.  
Thorek pushed his way inside, knocking the Nords over. He burst through the door, where the Nord leader was straddling the woman, whose dress had been badly ripped. Without a second thought, Silver-Blood grabbed the Nord and hauled him off of her, throwing him into the wall.  
Thorek turned his attention to the Breton and pulled up the woman who started to thank him. He cut her off and said; 'You are a silly girl. Don't you realise you're not welcome here.'  
She looked struck, but Thorek ignored her expression and pulled of his expensive cloak, wrapping it around her ruined dress before pulling her out of the room.  
The Nord had recovered though and started taunting him; 'Milk drinker!' Thorek shrugged off the insult with effort. 'That's it, keep running to the Silver-Bloods. They look after pissy peasants like you!'  
Thorek turned. The Nord continued; 'You want to mess with me? Come on, I'll introduce you to steel in your belly! How about that?'  
Thorek Silver-Blood couldn't help it. 'Perhaps I'll introduce you to my silver.' He drew his sword and the Nord did the same, he being the only who owned a sword. 'You know, this isn't a wise idea. I could take on you and your friends, and still have time to fuck this women behind me.'

The Nord growled, his expression furious. 'You couldn't beat me with one hand behind your back.'

'Shall we see?' Thorek was grinning now.  
They squared off, but before they could clash one of his friends grabbed Thorek and threw him out of the room. He stumbled out, smashing into the bar. Ale spilled over his long stone-grey coat and over the silver buckles. He turned to face them, his back to the bar, his blood beginning to pump faster.  
There were five of them, all ugly. 'This is hardly fair. Do you still want me to fight with one hand?' Thorek flashed them a white grin and one of them leapt at him. The Silver-Blood dodged, grabbing his attackers head and slamming it into the bar. He drew his sword as two more came for him. Thorek dodged one unarmed blow keeping his own empty right hand behind his back, before whipping round his silver hilt and breaking the Nord's jaw, and then slamming his foot into the second Nord's kneecap, breaking it was an explosive scream of pain.  
The other had drawn his knife and Thorek dropped his sword, grabbing the innkeeper's cloth, just before the knife rammed into it, inches from Thorek's own nose. He twisted it and the knife spun from his attacker's hand, and then delivering a kick that knocked the Nord over.  
The last Nord crony backed off and the leader stepped forward.  
'Time to gut you myself, then.' He swept forward, but Thorek regained his sword and easily blocked the blow, dodged, deflected off his guard, pushed off the bar and under the other Nord's blade, and... there. The blade was stuck in the wood and Thorek lay his blade across the Nord's neck, who was panting heavily. Thorek had barely warmed up.  
'And there we have it. Four, beaten with only one hand. Ah, but then you wanted five men with one hand. Shall we do it again? This time, I'll be sure to fight all of you.' The lead Nord looked scared, and on the verge of tears. 'No?' Thorek put on a face of disappointment. 'Oh well, I would end your miserable life now, but,' he nodded his head in the direction of the Breton woman; ' there are ladies present. So instead I've decided to teach you a lesson.'  
Thorek Silver-Blood drew his sword across the other man's cheek, leaving a deep scar. The man whimpered in pain and Thorek lifted his blade and wiped on the man's shirt.  
'True justice, given by your Lord. Do not insult the Silver-Blood's again.' The Nords and the woman gasped and Thorek got some satisfaction out of knowing that they feared his family, and him, to some small extent. They wouldn't try that again, on a woman.  
'Here, you want me to help you get home?' Thorek asked the Breton woman extending his hand, but with a degree of impatience.  
'That would be kind.' Her face was white; she was clearly shaken, but she also looked a little reluctant to go with him, Thorek noted, but he chose to ignore it. She took his hand and he led her from the inn, not before giving the innkeeper a pointed look. _I will return._  
They moved out into fresh air and the bustle of the city.  
'Where do you live?' Thorek asked her.  
She looked a little sheepish. 'I don't; that was why I was in the inn.'  
'Right.' Thorek felt a little bad for his earlier rebuke of the woman; she clearly didn't know how Markarth worked. He pushed the thought away. 'Why don't you come up to the keep then?'  
'Understone Keep? You live there?'  
'I'm a Silver-Blood. Where else would I live?'  
'Of course I wouldn't know, my lord.'  
Thorek was pleased with the deference and did nothing to correct her. 'This way then.'  
He led her across the city, dodging the scummy parts and using his rank to get them up safely to the keep. _I should have brought a horse,_ he reflected, somewhat disgruntled. They did eventually reach it though, but only as dusk was drawing in. Markarth was a large city, and night came early in the west.  
Thorek passed the guards, who inclined their heads to him, and entered before he remembered the quarrel he had with his father. It wouldn't be good to confront Father now, especially with a woman present. He made his way around the area of the throne room, something the Breton noticed but didn't comment on. Thorek brought her to his room, large and well furnished.  
'I have no sisters, love, so you'll just have to wear some of my clothes.' He pulled out some of them, which even though he was of an average height for a Nord, about six foot one, the clothes drowned her.  
Meanwhile Thorek pulled off his own long grey coat, so only a billowy shirt, expensively made, covered his torso. He pulled off his sword belt, with his sword and dagger attached and put it to one side. He kept on his high black boots.  
'I have a bathroom.' Thorek motioned towards it. 'You can dress in there.' The woman still looked hesitant. 'Don't worry,' he smiled; 'I'm not a little boy like your friends in the inn. I won't peek.' He turned back to his bedside table which he pulled out a map of Skyrim out of and started studying it.  
_Whiterun, the Royal Court, is a journey of a month or so away. It's a long time, I'll have to arrange supplies and guards otherwise some bandit group might presume to challenge me._ He sat back and savoured the fight he would have, before he turned his attention to other matters, namely how he was going to convince his father to help him.  
The chances were looking slim, after all, his uncle had been right; his father didn't want him to do this in any case, so he definitely wouldn't fund it. It looked hopeless to Thorek, and he didn't have the personal resources to get there himself. _I've been too dependent on him_, he realised bitterly. His mood was dark when the Breton women came out of the bathroom, completely naked. Her young body put all thought of his problems from his mind and he took her on the floor, away from the prying eyes of his father.

**I hope you guys liked Thorek's mixed personality, because he is really fun to write. Not to mention, he isn't exactly a hero, nor a villain. Anyway, for all you Stormcloak fans, never fear, you will see them next, with another new POV. This guy has been a long time in the making, and I think you can guess who he is. Please review.**


	4. The Stormcloaks

**The thanks. To DragonXander, thanks for all the reviews! I'm pleased that Djurien reminds you of yourself. I never thought of him like that, but I will definitely incorporate that into his personality. And quickly, they weren't that drunk. Make no mistake, Thorek is an incredible fighter. Truly incredible. That will become more apparent as we continue. I'm glad that you think that he's unpredictable, because he should be, hopefully. Yep, Iggy had to die for the story to progress. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review and the idea. The sex scene will be included at some point. By OC, do you mean a POV? To Darth Rabbits, thanks for the Story Follower. To Mega Kilo 69, thanks for the Story Favourite and Story Follower. To Shadowstar125, thanks for the Story Follower and Story Favourite. **

**First, Thorek was way better received than I originally anticipated. There will be a few more bad-good characters, but Thorek is unique in my writing and I'm glad you guys liked him because he is seriously fun to write. **

**Secondly, the sex scene will be included then. Not soon, but I have a moment planned now. **

**Here we go guys. I know you have all been waiting to see Stormcloak on the end of a characters name, and this guy is pretty special. I've waiting two stories to put down that name. **

**Carl Alsfur Stormcloak**

**Carl Alsfur Stormcloak looked over** the boulder he was hiding behind. Steam hissed up and he recoiled with a curse. The dragon they were stalking turned, looking up from its meal and scouring the surrounding landscape before deciding it was nothing and turning back. Alsfur let out his pent up breath. His heart was racing.  
They had been hunting the dragon for five days now. It had taken them deep into the salty plains of geysers and pools of mineral water that sprawled between the cracked earth that dominated the centre of Eastmarch. Around this area were the plains, forests and mountains that made up the rest of the Hold. It was late evening now. Alsfur didn't doubt the importance of this moment. Tonight, his future would be decided.  
Alsfur looked round at his Lord Father, Jon Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, Lord of Eastmarch, Warden of the East and Marshal of the Old Armies. He was crouched next to him. His father's black hair was streaked with grey now, and he had lines around his mouth and eyes. Despite his age (he was in his late thirties now!), his body was as strong as ever, six feet and seven inches of muscle, compacted into a relatively slim frame, although not the 'slim' of other Nords. His width still dwarfed other men. His father's eyes, like Alsfur's own, were a light, sky blue rimmed in silver. They almost hummed with power. He had a heavy black fur cloak on, with leather under as it light armour. At his side hung the legendary sword, Kodaav.  
Kodaav was long, the equivalent to a hand and a half sword, with a straight crossguard and a supple black leather grip. The skyforge steel shone like silver and rippled in the fading light.  
Alsfur turned his attention back to the dragon, but his father put a hand on his shoulder.  
'See that? It's curling up. It's going to sleep soon.'  
'I don't want to kill a sleeping dragon,' Alsfur shot back. 'There's no honour in it!'  
Father looked at him, his eyes blazing into Alsfur's own. He knew he had overstepped the line now. Alsfur waited for his father's anger but it never came. Instead he smiled grimly and clapped his son on the shoulder.  
'Good. You have listened, and learnt. Life isn't fair, but not because of us or a lack of trying. That said, onikaan ni ov dovah. Never trust a dragon. Before sleep, a dragon is less ready, or able, to defend itself. It's fire has gone out and will take at least a good hour or so to reheat. You still kill an opponent, but a weakened one. Understand?'  
'Yes, Father. But aren't you immune to fire and frost?'  
His father pursed his lips. 'Mostly, yes, but you aren't and neither are these Nords.' He waved his arm at the other guardsmen waiting around them.  
'Why am I not immune?'  
'To activate the sossedov you must first absorb a soul. Hence our purpose here. Now, it's time to attack; you have the warhorn?'  
'Yes, Father.'  
Jarl Jon just nodded and Alsfur raised the horn to his lips, his excitement mounting up in his chest. He blew it and the sound echoed off the air. It was a devastating and inspiring noise, one capable of making opponents flee, and men rally. Father said deep magic resided in the horn, though he hadn't told him where he had gotten it from. It was just another of his mysteries…

His father leapt up and Alsfur did the same. Around him the guardsmen followed suit.  
Alsfur drew his sword and rushed the dragon, the anticipation of battle gone in a rush of air. It was strange, but when he thought of a dragon he never felt fear, only immense confidence. He put that down to his dragonblood.  
The men surrounded the dragon, which was a deep brown. His father called out to the men, telling them the kill was Carl Alsfur's. He had been immensely proud when his first son was named a Carl, by the High King no less. Alsfur had trained long hours and cleared out most of the bandits in Eastmarch to accord such an honour. But that had been years ago now. He had felt fear then, but not now. Alsfur hadn't felt any fear in years, but not for a lack of trying.  
The dragon circled, trying to cover all its sides unsuccessfully. Alsfur saw an opening and struck the dragon, drawing out it's silver specked blood. His father saw the hit and called off the guards. He knew that Alsfur was capable now; it was his battle. They gratefully retreated back and it was just Alsfur fighting the dragon while his father waited a short distance away.  
The dragon focused its attention on the young Stormcloak now and the Carl had to dodge the lunges made by the dragon. It knew it couldn't breathe fire and instead it used its massive wingspan to hold Alsfur in place, so he couldn't move past it.  
The wind from them buffeted him and Alsfur stepped back, trying to keep his balance. The dragon swept a claw at the Carl and he dodged, ducking down. Even so, he was off balance and the dragon's tail struck him, ripping up a section of his leather armour. One of his bracers was torn off his arm and it flew into one of the pools with a splash.  
Alsfur knew he had made a mistake, but Father and the guardsmen were completely silent; this was his test, otherwise he would never be allowed to inherit Windhelm. As of yet his father hadn't named an Heir, and Alsfur knew why: he had to kill this dragon, or else he would be a worthless leader.  
The Carl side-stepped around the dragon in an attempt to get behind it, ducking under its wings. The dragon tried to sweep Alsfur with its claws, but he sprang away, deflecting the blow off his blade. Although it still jarred him, the backward movement of his body reduced some of the power of the blow.  
Despite his efforts, Alsfur was still trapped between it's two front legs. His heart was beating quickly now, and his mind was hammering facts and old techniques into his body. The Carl knew that the dragon could easily crush him if it wanted to. He needed to do something, and quick.  
The dragon scented victory and mocked Alsfur with phrase in draconic. It swept in its claws, as it lunged with its head. Alsfur didn't think; he acted.  
As the claws and head advanced things slowed and he leapt, catching hold of a grip on the dragons head. He pulled himself up lightly, away from the claws and above the mouth. With a quick motion, he swept his sword down into the dragon's eye. The steel punched through the jelly of its eye in an explosive movement and blood gushed out, covering Alsfur. He gritted his teeth against the burning sensation that scorched his bare skin as he fell, landing heavily. The dragon screamed loudly and buckled, so Alsfur had to roll to avoid it crushing him, shouting out curses as the blood continued to burn him.  
With a grunt, Alsfur Stormcloak struggled to his feet and pain shot through his knees; they had been ripped from the fall and dragon ride. His back also hurt, but as he came to terms with what had just happened, a feeling of triumph rushed through the Carl.  
Alsfur turned to find the dragon dissolving into fiery flames which turned into a mass of golden light that surrounded and covered him. Alsfur felt a jolt of fear before he realised that the flames weren't hurting him, rather strengthening him. Power rushed through his blood which hummed and boiled. It created a sudden sensation that rushed through his veins and shocked him strangely.  
Father came up, his normally gloomy face lit by a wide smile. Alsfur felt a surge of pride surge through him, more powerful than the dragon soul, and settle in his stomach.  
Father stepped forward. 'Hail, Carl Alsfur Stormcloak, the new Captain of the Stone Guards, and Heir to Windhelm.' He remained standing, nodding his head as the men knelt, leaving Alsfur in front of them, standing, feeling an immense success wash over him as the men bellowed the Jarl's proclamation.  
Alsfur only heard one part of it; _'Heir to Windhelm.'_

**Short I know, but hopefully it was pretty good. Not much time to develop his personality, but you'll see more of that later. Anyway, I hope that was good. Another of my favourite characters is coming up next. **


	5. Nelkir White

**Okay, this guy is even harder to write than Thorek, if that's possible. That said, he is one of my favourite characters in the whole trilogy. **

**The thanks: to Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Actually it is pretty realistic I think. Nords aren't gods. They die like any men. If overwhelmed enough (or against good fighters) of course Igmund and his family would be killed. It was inevitable. To Sirwalterbeck, thanks for the Story favourite. To Crazy Halo Girl, thanks for the Favourite and Story Favourite. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Yep, I do need reviews after all. It is interesting to see Alsfur grown up after so long. he's another mixed personality, and it should be interesting. The second generation are definitely going to play a huge part in this new story. As for new next generation guys, well, we'll see I guess. As for Hearthfire, I think it's brilliant. I like how I can actually build a house worthy of my Thane status in game and adopt an heir. That said, they're never actually going to release it on Ps3. It sucks… **

**By the way, for Season Unending, thanks to Frenchie884. I'm really pleased that you like how I 'used' Skyrim. If you ever get up to this chapter or make an account, thanks for the review! **

**I'm going to start a lol campaign. That is, if you liked it and don't want to write a full review just put 'lol' in and send off. I'm really hoping we can get to 100 reviews in 10 chapters. Ambitious I know, but I think it's possible if I have your support. **

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: PLEASE READ- This is not the Nelkir from in game. He shares some similar traits, but he isn't as rude or horrible. That said, he is cynical and with a sharp tongue. His physical appearance is different as well. Just saying so I don't get any reviews saying I wrote him incorrectly. Just in case. I'm not expecting anyone to, but it's easier to write this instead. **

**Nelkir White**

**Nelkir White leaned against one** of the pillars that were arrayed on the edge of the main hall of Dragonsreach, the royal throne room. He watched with cool grey-blue eyes as Thanes and Carl's came and went, sometimes happy, sometimes disgruntled. Nelkir always thought the judgements were fair, mostly.  
He pushed golden strands out of his face and watched with interest as a new Nord came forward, dressed in an oak-brown doublet with a golden wheat stalk holding the clasp of his cloak. _A Thane_, Nelkir recognised, _with the sigils of Clan Stead on his chest._ Nelkir was familiar with most of the sigils and Clans that entered the throne room; he spent a lot of time in court.  
Nelkir turned his attention back to the Thane, who was currently exchanging pleasantries with Father. Finally the Thane got to the reason for the audience. Nelkir wasn't surprised about when he told the court his complaint; it was about the reachmen and Jarl Silver-Blood's granting of titles to their 'King'. It was almost pathetic how they thought they could still get some justice for it here.  
'They raid my land.' The Thane was currently listing the problems he faced, but Nelkir was already familiar with them; when the Thanes had failed to get justice from their local Jarl, they turned to the king, Nelkir's father. _It's a hopeless act of begging, and they will never get aid, _he thought darkly as he watched Thane Stead.  
When the Jarl of Markarth had granted titles to the reachmen there had been widespread protest. Some of the Reach Thanes had even declared war on the new Clan, but after a threat from the king they had backed down. The resentment, however, had not boiled down. That was three years ago now. It was the reason why the Jarl of Eastmarch, once a strong supporter of Father, had withdrawn any trace of Windhelm men or support in running Skyrim and closed off his borders to Whiterun. The relations were still sour, with Solitude and Morthal following Windhelm's example but of course Holds like Winterhold and Falkreath had remained 'loyal', mainly so that they could keep collecting the benefits of being in the King's favour. Even so, Windhelm's power and opinions were missed, not to mention the influence that Jarl Stormcloak of Windhelm held as a hero in Nordic society. Nelkir saw it as a sorry affair, one that undermined the unity of the country, but it wasn't his problem. _It's Frothar's,_ he thought, inwardly pleased.  
Nelkir White returned his attention back to the Thane's plead, as Father began to speak.  
Balgruuf Wind-Shifter, the first of his name, the High King of Skyrim, was in his early fifties now. His golden hair was silver, and his face was lined, mostly as a result of recent years. Nelkir was aware that Father missed Jarl Stormcloak more than he let on. He disapproved of this sentiment; Father needed to move on, but he didn't say this. His opinions were rarely valued anyway, but often scrutinised; _and I am nothing if not loyal_, Nelkir sighed.  
The King gave the Thane a small, meaningless compensation and the royal Steward came forward, from his Father's side, and whispered a few words in his ear. Father beckoned him away and turned back to the court. He rose;

'Recently the death of Carl Fjoren as Lord Housecarl has marred our spirits and I am sure that we all still mourn him.' Father's voice still rang out, clear and calm. 'However, with his passing it also means that a new Lord Housecarl must be chosen. I see there are already many hopeful;' he eyed a line of Carls who stood along the sides and back of the hall. They looked up eagerly, having waited for weeks for Father to finally make this decision.

'It has taken me a great deal of time, and thought, to decide on who shall succeed him, and bear in mind that my choice is final. With that said, I have chosen my new Housecarl.' He let the hubble of excited conversation die down before speaking again; 'The new Lord Housecarl will be Thorek of Clan Silver-Blood, the heir to Markarth.' Angry voices broke out and the Carls started pushing forward to petition to the King, shouting and jostling each other. _It's pointless, _Nelkir observed. _When Father makes a decision, he never turns back. _

'SILENCE!' Father boomed; 'I have made my choice because he was the best man available, and no other reason! That's that, it's over now. You hopefuls, I appreciate your support but that is the end. I wish you the best of luck.' He turned away and the Steward cried out; 'All kneel for His Grace High King Balgruuf of Clan Wind-Shifter!' The crowd knelt, grudgingly, and Father exited. _Follow him, _the voice whispered, and Nelkir hesitated for only a moment before going round the side of the hall and tailing his father. The voice had appeared about seven years ago, in his head. No one else could hear it; he had already tried to bring its existence to light, but they had ignored him as usual. So, instead he had welcomed it into his life; it was the only company he really got, and was better than some of the real people in court. The first few weeks had been hard for him to adjust to, but eventually, it had blended into his everyday life naturally and he hardly noticed it anymore.  
Nelkir followed the High King to his private chambers but before he could get up the courage to enter, his half brother Frothar got it his way, an ugly expression on his face.  
'Where do you think you're going, Bastard?' Frothar never referred to him by his name anymore. A few years ago Nelkir had actually found out what the word meant and naturally it had torn his world apart. He had once thought that he might inherit Whiterun, but now he knew it was impossible, and however isolated Nelkir had felt before, it had only become worse after his revelation. Seeing the effect it had on his younger half-brother had only encouraged Frothar to use it more often. As a result Nelkir had built up a healthy hatred for his tyrant of a brother.  
'I'm going to follow Father and discuss the court with him,' Nelkir replied curtly.  
'Why?' Frothar seemed genuinely surprised.  
'Well, he needs someone of intelligence at his side.'  
His half-brother followed the taunt darkly but he let Nelkir finish, and then took a menacing step towards Nelkir, who stood his ground. Frothar reached for his sword, which he had devoted a lot of time into training with, and drew a few inches out threateningly. Now Nelkir moved back; he wore no sword and in any case Frothar was the better blade. However Nelkir was quicker, but where would he run?  
Frothar was on the verge of actually drawing his steel and Nelkir was starting to panic when his sister Dagny came round the corner. She was an attractive girl of seventeen, with long brown hair, like her mother and Frothar, and emerald green eyes; her only marring feature being a pug nose. Otherwise, she was very beautiful with her slim, alluring figure, but unfortunately this had only further inflamed her ingrained arrogance and immense disregard for others. However, for whatever reason, she had a soft spot for her half-brother; the only one in the family who did. Even Father only just tolerated his presence while his step-mother was obviously jealous that Nelkir had inherited most of his Father's looks, as compared to his siblings who had taken on most of her own features.  
'Leave him be, Frothar,' she told him, sternly. Nelkir felt like some kind of small animal. It wasn't a gratifying feeling.  
Frothar looked between them, before moving his own stormy grey eyes back to Nelkir and shrugging. 'Fine; I'll leave the Bastard with you, Dag.' He walked away as if he had planned to all along and Nelkir turned to Dagny, who was blushing and looking away as if she didn't want to be seen with him. Nelkir had grown accustomed to that look and it didn't hurt as much as it used to.  
'Thanks,' he said, but she just turned away and stalked off without another word. Nelkir shrugged, it had been another shitty day, and decided it would just be better to go back to his room. _No, you must talk with Balgruuf! _Nelkir ignored the voice though, and instead wandered through the corridors of Dragonsreach, heading in the general direction of his room.  
Nelkir passed several guardsmen. Most ignored him, but one or two muttered 'Bastard' under their breath before moving on. Nelkir was used to it by now and just ignored them. He knew they wanted him to react, and so he didn't; he just walked on without a word. _People are cruel anyway, as is life. What's a little more cruelty, _he thought bitterly.

Nelkir knew the palace well, and it only took him a few minutes to find his way back to his room. It was modest, compared to his brother and sisters, and tucked away in a corner of the palace, as if they were trying to hide him. Nelkir couldn't blame them really, so he put up with it without a word. _It was either this, or the street_, he reflected. It could get lonely, but the whispering voice was good company, most of the time.

Nelkir made his way to his bed, where his sword lay. It was about the only thing his Father had given him willingly. He had only been too happy to see Nelkir train in the yard, and as a result had produced this for his last birthday, his sixteenth. It was a handsome blade, the dark-red leather sheath banded in yellow gold, but seeing it only made Nelkir more annoyed.

'Where were you when I needed you, huh?' He threw the sword off his bed and sat back on it, trying to forget his encounter with Frothar. He knew his elder brother would come for him again, and he eyed the sword on the floor next to his bed.

_You would do well to carry steel around, _the voice told him. As usual Nelkir just largely ignored it. But even so, it seemed like a smart idea. He resolved to take the blade with him next time he went out; it might make Frothar lay off of him a bit. Somehow though, Nelkir doubted it.

**Review please! I hope you guys liked that. Don't worry, in the next chapters Nelkir's personality will further develop and you'll see his darker qualities, as opposed to just being an all-out good guy. Feel sorry for him though and I think he has a pretty good plotline planned. He won't stay in the court. Thanks for reading. **


	6. The Jarl of Windhelm

**I know that Jon is probably the most awaited character for a POV in this Series so here he is. He will have a much smaller POV role than the last two in the Trilogy, but he's still here. **

**The thanks: To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Time will tell. As for the reference, I'm sorry, I've got to let you down this time. I don't know. What is it? Actually, and you couldn't know, (he hasn't shown it) but Frothar, when not around his brother is going to be… very different from the social norm of half-brothers. Dagny is a spoiled brat though, but even she may surprise you. To wyerking, thanks for the Story Favourite! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked it. You've changed school? Where to? Why does it make you sad? (I'm working on overdrive now trying to get these chapters out. I'll try my best.) Thank you all!**

**I think this chapter will have many surprises and answer a lot of questions. Remember to review. **

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak**

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak sat on **the Throne of Ysgramoras he listened to the news that Balbus Amol, Thane of Fort Amol, brought him, calm and composed.

'The bandits attacked Amol over several weeks. As it is, I shouldn't be gone for so long else they take it. However I have all faith in my brother Tort.' He was a fairly short man, but built like an ox with thin hair.

Jon leaned forward. 'And you're sure that these are bandits?' He had never heard of them attacking a powerful Fort such as Amol, which also acted as Thane Balbus' seat.

'Yes, my Jarl. I made sure to recognise them before I came here.' Jon leaned back, nodding approvingly. Balbus was a good Thane. In the eleven years he had been Jarl, Jon had quickly rooted out the bad ones.

'What would you have me do?'

'I need some men to help drive them out. If my Jarl would attend to it himself; the men would be greatly heartened to fight alongside you.'

'I can't leave Windhelm now,' Jon said, quickly. He hesitated before deciding against telling the Thane. It had been months since an attack now, but Jon didn't want to risk it. Instead he exaggerated an already know fact. 'Winterhold is becoming more powerful, and I am required here in the city to deal with the diplomacy.' And it was true, to an extent. Ever since the King had started to fund Winterhold's redevelopment it had improved rapidly. While its suleyk, _power_, wouldn't threaten Windhelm's for some time, Jon still wanted to stay cautious.

'I understand that you-' Balbus began, but Jon cut him off by raising his hand.

'I am aware of the threat, and I mean to act against it.' Balbus looked relieved. 'I will send out a detachment;' Jon thought quickly and decided he was ready; 'under my heir and son, Carl Alsfur Stormcloak. It will be a good test for his new title.'

'I wasn't aware that he was your heir now. May I offer my congratulations.'

'I appreciate it. He is also the new Captain of the Stone Guards.'

'Indeed.' Balbus' eyebrows rose a few inches. 'Are you sure he is ready?'

'Yes, I'm sure.' There was a certain amount of steel in Jon's tone. 'He is ready. I will ensure that they will depart in a few days. Until then feel free to take a chamber in here. Brunwulf, would you be so kind as to prepare a room for Thane Balbus?'

Brunwulf Free-Winter, Jon's Steward, bowed and walked off to find some servants to help him with his task. Jon turned to Carl Ralof Wood, his Housecarl.

'Can you inform the Stone Guards of their new duty?'

'I will, my Jarl.' Ralof strode off to find their barracks, with his customary grin.

'Thane Balbus, would you feast with my family?'

'It would be an honour,' he replied, respectfully. By now Jon knew how to deal with the Thanes. Although they were sworn to him, a Jarl had to pay them some respect as they held the majority of the military power in the Hold. It was an odd relationship. All this Jon had learnt from Brunwulf, but he had mastered them now.

**Jon Stormcloak sat in court** for another half-an-hour before calling it to a halt and leaving the palace. He took a swig of the milk of the poppy, to dull the pain of his old scars, before having his horse saddled. It had been more than eleven years since he had suffered his wounds at Alduin's hands. In that time, they had failed to heal properly, instead sending burning faaz, _pain_, through his side every few months. The experience was unimaginable; it sapped his strength and left him haggard and weak for the next week. Ysold was incredible throughout them, supporting him and looking after him, until he was ready to resume his duties, but even so, after an attack Jon often found that he could often barely walk, let alone ride. That was why he had to be cautious. That was why he ahd to deny Amol's request.

Jon mounted his key, _horse_, and Ralof followed him, his shadow, and they rode the streets of Windhelm together as they often did. They talked about new policies, bandits and other such things. In all honesty Ralof was Jon's only real friend after the events of the Civil War eleven years ago. Ralof talked, Jon listened, and in this they were content; it suited them. On these rides the gap between Jarl and Housecarl were pulled down and they talked as equals.

This day Jon and Ralof rose to the market on impulse. It was bustling and full, packed with people. Jon's rank, and horse, cleared a path, but he was careful not to hurt the people thronging the market, just as it was equally important that he maintain the image of a Jarl and so he didn't dismount.

They stopped and looked around the market, high up as they were on their horses. Jon's eye was drawn to a woman, dressed in a black velvet dress with silver brooches. She was attended by several younger ladies, but Jon's eyes were only for her. Her long brown hair fell to her back and when she laughed her green eyes sparkled. They were a few lines on her face, faint, but there. She had been pregnant before, and it had left her a little wider in the hips, and her waist wasn't quite as flat as it used to be, but to Jon this just made her more desirable. His eyes were drawn to the tops of her ripe breasts that were just visible above the cut of her dress. She must be thirty-seven now but age itself had left her mostly untouched, merely passing over her body a little. In any case Jon was smitten.

He rode his horse over to her and called down; 'I thought Windhelm was devoid of fair ladies. I only ever see tough leather and snow.'

She turned and a smile lit her face. She curtsied elegantly, 'My Jarl, a pleasure.'

'That old rule, about the Jarl being entitled to take any woman he wished; that still stands?' he looked back at Ralof.

The Housecarl was grinning. 'I believe so.'

She looked mischievous. 'Then I'm lucky the Jarl is an honourable man.'

'And who told you that?' Jon grinned. It was a game they played, one where they acted as if they were strangers to each other. Normally, it was far more ribald, but they were among others. The women was of course Lady Ysold Stormcloak, Jon's wife. He always felt happier in her presence. 'Come on up here, the view is magnificent.' He dismounted and helped her mount his horse before vaulting up to the front, a task that had only gotten harder as he had gotten older. It must have still been impressive though, as some of the other woman in the square looked over at him, but Ysold wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his back, clearing indicating what she thought of the other women's chances. Jon leaned down to her ladies in waiting; 'Would you take her things to the palace?'

'Of course, my Jarl.'

'My thanks.' He turned the horse, careful around the people, and headed back to the palace, with Ysold at his back and Ralof following behind.

**Dinner that volun, **_**night**_**, was pleasant. **Jon sat at the head of the massive feast table laid with all kinds of Eastmarch delicacies, with his wife Ysold on his left, Alsfur on his right and his young son Ulfgar next to him. The Thane held a spot next to Ysold, with his retinue around him, including his daughter and heir, Greta Amol. Jon watched with amusement as she passed shy looks to Alsfur, who was only a few years older than her, at twenty.

For his part Alsfur did his best to impress her, even going so far as to balance his knife on a finger. Of course Ysold caught him on that and he had to put it away sheepishly, but Jon still watched the display with interest, as did Balbus, who looked on like a hungry wolf. No doubt he wanted his daughter to marry Alsfur, now the heir to the whole of Eastmarch and all its titles. After Jon and Ysold he was the most powerful person in the Hold, and his features, unlike Jon's harder, bear-like ones had more of his mother's, leaving him as a handsome young man. That said, none of Jon's kin could shake the classic Stormcloak features, something which left the Jarl pleased. Jon couldn't have been more proud, except for when Alsfur's knife trick failed and he ended up slicing open his palm. His bravado saved his mistake though, but Jon noticed that he was sweating with pain. Honestly, his display was most uncharacteristic for Alsfur, but Jon soon caught on to his ruse when Greta bound the wound in his napkin though, murmuring flattering praise.

Jon turned his attention to his younger son, Ulfgar Stormcloak. Of all the family, he had inherited most of the Stormcloak features. His om, _hair_, was a yellowy blond, shot with black, and his face was already beginning to resemble Jon's own father Ulfric Stormcloak. He wasn't sure if he was pleased, or whether it brought up too many bad memories.

**Jon escorted the Thane to **his rooms before retiring to his own, pulling off his doublet and belt, breeches and boots and falling into bed. The fact that Ysold then fell on top of him and they warmed up the cold night together only made it all the better. He fell asleep with his arms around her.

**Jon Stormcloak opened his eyes **slowly, blinking away snow, which swirled around him. He looked down at his feet to find that he was standing on the battlements of the Palace of Kings, far above the ground. He wore mail and fur, and at his side was Kodaav, his sword, but he didn't remember putting it on, nor had he worn for months, save when they had hunted Alsfur's first dragon a few weeks earlier. He looked up, scanning the white air as a massive dragon descended on the building, landing heavily.

He was white, like the snow, with huge wings and sparkling claws. Jon knew this dragon: it was Paarthurnax.

'Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin. I see my brother left you with something.' The dragon nodded his head at Jon's right side, where Alduin's claws had ripped through his skin and flesh. The great dovah obviously knew about his troubles.

Stormcloak switched the draconic, the language Paarthurnax was using. 'What are you doing here, Paarthurnax?' Jon should have been shocked, but somehow he wasn't. The great dragon had been killed by Alduin years ago; he should be in Sovngarde now.

'Visiting you. It is about tiid, _time_, I did so.'

'Why?' Jon was unusually impatient, as if he couldn't wait to get this over with. He should be stunned.

'Los nii ni kiinde? _Is it not obvious? _You have made many mistakes, Dovahkiin. I told you to unite Skyrim, which you did admirably, but then you wasted it.' To Jon's surprise, scorn crept into Paarthurnax's voice.

'Nid, I tried my best-'

'You have done nothing of the sort! You block your borders, when you should instead be opening them!'

'Hin ni mindoraan. _You don't understand._ I had to do something, Paarthurnax. The Silver-Bloods pardoned the Forsworn! Families were killed at those hands.'

'That is it? You have spilt Skyrim because of a dispute. The Silver-Bloods are many things, but they are not worth dying over. Hin dukaan Dovahkiin.'

'You don't know them, or the Forsworn.'

Paarthurnax growled threateningly. He was the angriest Jon had ever seen him, and Jon moved back as he advanced, his hand going subconsciously to his sword. 'You forget, but I have watched this junaar, _kingdom,_ for years before my death. The lives of a few are not equal to those of many. Vengeance will have to wait,' Paarthurnax concluded decidedly.

'Their rule is unjust!' Jon argued. 'They were raised to the Jarldom of Markarth without opposition, after the Oaths deaths. The Jun, _King_, did that!'

'But you chose him?' Jon turned away, but Paarthurnax followed him round. 'It is your fault. Remember, nothing matters, Dovahkiin. I told you, family bonds, titles, land, it doesn't matter in the face of the impeding doom.'

'What, the Thalmor?' Jon said sceptically. 'It's been eleven years!'

'And the hour draws closer, Dovahkiin. So much closer. We will meet again.'

That caught Jon by surprise and he looked up questioningly as the dovah turned away, ready to fly. 'Wait, what do you mean?' He was confused about everything now; the meeting, the Thalmor, his own decisions.

And then with a start, he fell to the ground, and into the dark embrace of sleep.

**So, who was expecting Paarthurnax? Review please. Check out the forum if you want, or my polls. **


	7. A Message From The King

**Here's the next chapter. A lot of these ones I've already written in advance and I'm just brushing them off but soon I'm going to run out of 'ready made' chapters and then the rate will probably slow down quite a bit. **

**The thanks. This time, its just you Delphine hater who hasn't got an account. (I think. I'm sorry if I've missed out anyone.) I'm happy that you like Paarthy's return and as for Jon's injury; yep, it really is that bad. And it's probably safe to say its getting worse. He probably won't last much longer. Sorry guys. Maven and the guild will probably not appear, just because I have no role for them. Sorry. **

**Anyway, things are getting quicker. This chapter should further help explain the situation Skyrim has got stuck in. I will explain it as I go along, so don't worry if it's a bit confusing now. (It might not be, or it might. I'm finding it pretty confusing.) **

**Lady Ysold Stormcloak**

**She woke with a start. **Just a second ago she had been dreaming, Jon's warm arms around her, his head buried in her hair, and then it was broken. The messenger stood in the doorway, a snow caked cloak hanging on his shoulders. He stepped into the room cautiously, his expression wary. Jon's expression was black.

Ysold watched, tucked under the covers and furs, one to protect her modesty, secondly because the night was extremely cold. It always was in Windhelm. Jon had sat up and beckoned the Nord over who quickly passed him the letter and retreated to a corner. Jon lit himself a candle and quickly studied the letter, his expression changing from annoyance to disbelief. In all honesty, his face hardly changed, but Ysold had grown use to picking out the individual features in his face, the turn of his eyebrows, the gleam in his eyes, the fix of his jaw…

Ysold quickly retreated further under the covers and she felt Jon's free hand move over her. She shuddered with pleasure and battered away his hand lightly. It came back and she started playing with it, absently, while watching Jon. He had finished the letter and looked at the messenger, his stare hard. The Nord shuffled awkwardly under his gaze. Eventually Jon released him from his torment and asked the messenger a question.

'Who wrote this?' His voice was steel, but where it deterred most people Ysold found a sense of strength and immovability in it.

'The King himself, my Jarl.'

Jon looked surprised, and this time it did show on his face. 'Why?'

'I don't know, my Jarl. I'm just the messenger.'

Jon nodded, as if this explained a lot and looked at the letter again. He turned to Ysold and passed her the letter without a word. She took it and sat up, pulling the furs over her breasts, quickly scanning the mystery letter with interest. It was from the King, calling Jon to court. It was addressed to him directly, by she could tell it was a copy of an original draft. It was written in Balgruuf's hand though.

'You can go now. Take a room for the night, but I want you gone in the morning.' Jon was still ill favoured towards Whiterun men. Ysold had tried to temper this, and had succeeded to a degree. Without her intervention he might have gone to war with Balgruuf! But then Jon was always doing things like that; acting before he thought about it.

He sunk back into bed beside her and looked at Ysold, his eyes awake. She stared back at him, waiting for his first words. Eventually he took the hint.

'What's so urgent that Balgruuf has to write me now?' His voice was trying to hold in a swirl of emotions. Ysold couldn't say she understood, but the King and Jon had been best friends for years. They fought the war together, Jon acted as Balgruuf's chief support in the Kingsmoot and he had supported Balgruuf in his early years as King, both of them new to their positions. After Carl Ralof, Balgruuf is her husband's only real friend. _Was, _she corrected herself. _They haven't talked for years after the Silver-Blood incident._ Jon just looked at her, and she realised that she had been thinking for a while now.

'I think you need to go.'

'I said I never wanted to see him again.' His tone was hard, but it didn't deter Ysold as it did others.

'Balgruuf knows how you feel towards him. But equally he has sent you this message. He needs to talk to you and damn it Jon,' she punched his chest lightly; 'you would be a sod to ignore him.'

Jon stared at her and she returned it steadily. Some internal conflict was raging through his mind, she could tell. His eyes bore the remains of a bad dream. Jon took a while to answer, his jaw tight. 'What about Windhelm?'

'What of it?'

'With Alsfur going to Amol on his mission, who will rule?'

'Your wife, by any chance?'

Her husband looked unsure. 'Yes, I suppose you're right. But-'

'Ulfgar will be here as well. He may be young, but I'll guide him. Then you can keep your precious 'Dragonblood' in the capital.'

Jon mulled this over while she looked at him, trying to guess at his next action.

'Yes, fine.' He looked at her intently. 'You will support him.'

Ysold rolled her eyes. 'Yes, and I'll make sure that he sits on the throne and hears all the audiences. It'll be fine.'

Jon still looked unsure. 'What about Alsfur? Should I cancel his mission?'

'And risk offending Thane Amol?' Ysold cupped Jon's face. 'We'll be fine until Alsfur returns. Ulfgar's ten years old. He can handle it; and I'll be there all the time to guide him.'

Jon still looked troubled, like he was wrestling with some internal conflict. Something was preying on his mind, but Ysold was hesitant to ask.

Finally, he came to a decision. 'Fine, I'll go. I'll see Balgruuf after all these years, but if something goes wrong, I'm blaming you,' Jon said, mock threatenly.

Ysold rolled her eyes. 'Yes, it's all my fault.' She sobered up for a second. 'It's the right thing, Jon.'

He nodded and took her in his arms. Ysold smiled happily and she snuggled up to him.

'You know, it's about time your sons actually learnt to rule this place,' Ysold said from the warm embrace of Jon's arms.

'I didn't have any training and I was fine.'

'Those were different circumstances. If we had it your way you'd be trying to cram all the knowledge into their heads even as you lay on your death bed.'

'And it would be a good method,' he said from over her shoulder.

'Yeah, right. That's why the other Jarls are all doing it,' Ysold replied sarcastically.

'We're Stormcloaks. We work differently.'

'I've heard that too many times,' she mumbled before falling asleep in his arms.

**I'm sorry that its pretty short but there wasn't all that much to say. In any case, the story is progressing quickly. My next POV should be interesting, and unexpected. It's a battle next too.**


	8. The Empire

**Sorry guys. I know this took a long time, but I've been pretty busy recently. Anyway, this chapter's pretty long as well so hopefully it will make up for the time taken to get it out. **

**The thanks: To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm really glad that you liked the way that I portrayed Ysold (that's great) and as for Jon's death, it's actually been going around the reviews for a while now. Don't worry about it. Put it in the forums if you like. Jon's injury will never heal, because it can't. Sorry, and as for Ralof, he probably never will get a wife. I may play around with a concept, and that's quite a good idea, so I'll think about it. By the way, I always like seeing your 'hurry up' review! Thanks. To Gerry, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased that you liked it! To BladeAgent99, thanks for the review! Good to see that you've been reading since the early days! I'm really pleased that you also liked Ysold (that really is great), and as for Jon, Ned Stark is an inspiration for him, but don't worry about the death bit. I don't hate Siddgeir. I just needed a bad guy and he fit the bill. Keep on reviewing please! To ames 449, thanks for the Story Favourite and Favourite! Thanks everyone. Again, sorry that this chapter took so long. **

**Here we go! None of you guys managed to guess who would be the new POV. Here he is. I took a little inspiration from 'Gladiator'. Not completely, but a little. **

**General Casta Allectus**

**General Casta Victorus Gaius Allectus **woke in early dawn, lying on his camp bed, staring at the ceiling. Today was the decider. The Empire's fate in Black Marsh would be decided by his leadership, and his only. He breathed deeply, letting the familiar anxiousness of battle wash over him. Casta found that the best way of coping with the nervous hours before a fight was to sit back and stay silent, letting each fear come over him, take hold, and then leave. It was certainly an unorthodox method for it; he knew his Tribunes didn't do the same, but it worked for him and that was all that mattered. With a sigh he rose and called for his body servant who rushed in instantly. _The lad was good_, Casta thought as he got to his feet.

'My armour, please.'

The boy rushed off in a hurry, as if they were being attacked right now and he looked after him with a smile on his face. Casta remembered when he had been like that. It was a strange feeling to return to the past.

While he waited he went over a large wash bowl, set on a simple wooden table. Clear, fresh water was already in it waiting for him. Haderus washed his face, letting the cold numb him back into reality from the half dream he had been wandering earlier as he woke up properly. He ran the water through his straight brown hair, receding at the temples a little and over the well trimmed beard that covered his long face. By the time he had shook himself out the boy had returned with his armour and they strapped him into it.

First, a light leather armour went over his torso, and then gilded mail over that. The body servant fitted his light plate over his body, shaped like Casta's own body with muscled detail. A skirt of leather and gilded studs reached down to his knees and gold plated greaves went over his shins, while bracers were strapped to his arms. A deep scarlet scarf-like half cloak was tied around his neck. It reached halfway down his back. _It was quite pointless_, Haderus reflected, _there for show more than anything else. _The armour was the same; the more ornate it was, the higher the wearer's rank. In the middle of the breastplate was the silver dragon of the Empire, in its diamond shaped design.

General Casta Allectus nodded to his body servant and reached for his belt, strapping on the tough leather and then attaching his sword to it. It was a gladius, longer than the usual one though, and thinner. The handle was good wood, polished to a shine and smooth from service, with gold picked out in simple designs. It wasn't for show though; the weapon had been through heavy service, as indicated by the scratched blade. With that securing fastened, Casta took a deep breath before exiting his tent, into the noise and humid atmosphere of an Imperial Legion camp.

They were stationed in Black Marsh, the home to the Argonians, a race of man lizards. They were largely primitive, and Casta found them strange as a race. They spoke softly, yet were capable of tearing off a man's face. Their homes were mud and wattle, but they possessed superior knowledge of herbs and poisons. Casta had decided that it was best to be careful around them a long time ago, and never underestimate their ingenious capacity in war. The last General had been such a fool, and he had died only two weeks into the campaign. That was when the Emperor had called in Casta. His past record was impressive, and so today would be the final affirmation that he had been the right man for the job. It would mean another medal, and more praise for the Emperor himself. That said, it wasn't the personal rewards that Casta wanted. He was happy to be working for the glory of Empire. That was all that really mattered.

The General decided that the first place that he needed to go to was to check the state of the men. That would mean talking to Legate Caro, a tough old veteran, ten years Casta's senior. He started trudging through the camp, his guard behind him. It was a large place, full of men anxious for battle. Fear was running rank through the air, with the familiar bloody undercurrent. The Emperor clearly planned for this to be the end of the campaign.

His tent was in the middle of the camp, a short distance from Casta's own, and surrounded by the Penitus Oculatus, his elite guard. Casta eyed them as he passed, noticing their alert looks, and steady hands.

The General moved past them and over to the tents of his support staff. Legate Caro's was located close to the Emperor's, in the middle of the vast camp. Like all their tents, it was scarlet will gold bordering and silver dragons picked out on the cloth. All the officers had a tent like this, though Casta's was considerable larger. The Emperor's has gold dragons instead and his was a miniature palace.

Without knocking, General Allectus entered to find Caro at his campaign map, only just awake presumably.

'General, sir.' He snapped to attention.

Casta waved a hand. 'At ease, Caro. We're attacking today.'

Caro raised his eyebrows. 'Indeed.'

'On the Emperor's orders,' he said pointedly.

'Yes, sir. I will ready the infantry.'

'Do that. Also, see that the cavalry master is woken and have him prepare his own men. Do that first.'

'Of course, General.' Without further ado he strode from the tent and Casta turned to follow, intending to make his way over to the field of battle. The land was a marsh and before long, Casta's shins were covered in mud and water as he made his careful descent down the hill they had set the camp on. The battlefield would essentially be a large bog, firmer than some land in Black Marsh, but weaker than others. There was a tree line across from their camp, no doubt where the natives would appear from, but it ended a long distance from their camp. Casta had made sure of that to prevent any surprise attacks.

His keen eye could already see what was going to happen; the natives would use the water surrounding the marsh to their advantage, in an attempt to prey on the unsteady land. Casta wouldn't let them.

He started dictating his orders to his aides. 'The men will be stationed on the driest land possible, near the hill, and a detachment of men with tridents will butcher any of the Argonians that tried to come up in front or behind the line of battle to break the line. The Imperial Legion will of course fight in formation, and repel the attackers that way. Behind them will be archers, using barbed arrows. Fire would be useless anyway. That will break any organised attack. Tell the Master of Horse, Cassius, that his cavalry will split. One to make up an extra force, dismounted, to reinforce any areas that may be under pressure in battle. The other half is to circle around with a cohort of men to ambush the Argonians.' Casta turned to the page following him. 'Have you got all that?' The boy nodded. 'Go then and tell Legate Caro and Cassius. They will see that the men are organised properly.' The page ran off and General Casta Allectus turned back to the field, waiting for the first sign of enemy approach.

**The noises of horns were **first heard at midday. The Argonians would have done better to come at midnight, when they might not have been seen, but they were impatient to end this. It didn't matter to Casta; they were too powerful in Black Marsh now. This was the last field army the Legions needed to fight. The Argonian King was supposedly leading them. Casta hoped this was true; his death or capture would signal a quick end to the war.

The men were arrayed around him now, all in armour. It was a powerful sight, with their weapons glinting and their faces hard with determination. It was a site that made Casta proud of the Empire. He turned to look at the approaching enemy. It was them.

The Argonians were dressed in tough leather with steel blades and axes by their sides. Bows hung on their backs, _likely with poison-tipped arrows to fill them_, Casta thought grimly. They were imposing, swarming out of the thin forest. The Legions stood defiantly in front of them, waiting and watching. All hands were itching for their steel and the air was thick with fear.

Casta felt it too. It tugged at his mind like a wild dog, threatening to pull him down into the abyss. He could be killed today, by a sword, or an arrow… He was armoured in thick steel but would that be enough? In all honestly, it didn't really matter in any case; Talos would decide his fate.

General Allectus starting walking down the line, as much to relieve his legs of their thick, heavy feel that was the fear as to issue his orders.

The men he was walking beside were the archers. Arrows stuck from the ground by their feet as they readied their bows. Some had gritted teeth, others were panting with fearful apprehension. Casta repeated the old traditions.

'Strength and honour.'

'Strength and honour,' the men near him replied. The General repeated that as he moved down the line. The men drew themselves up, ready to fight. He smiled and clapped their backs. It was working; the line was stronger.

As he passed the infantry in front of him, down at the base of the hill, stamped their shields.

'Victorus!' It was a name given to him by the Emperor for his outstanding past feats. The men liked to use it.

'Victorus!'

Casta nodded as he finally reached Caro, with his own infantry officers around him.

'General,' he said, saluting. The men followed his lead.

'Caro,' Casta replied. They grasped each other's arms. 'Strength and honour.'

'Strength and honour,' the Legate repeated.

'I want your men to prepare to defend. I want you commanding the archers. I'll take charge of the infantry.'

'Are you sure, sir? The Emperor's watching.'

With a start Casta looked round. Up on the top of the hill, surrounded by Penitus Oculatus, was indeed the Emperor of Cyrodillic Empire. He was dressed in fine armour, with a light scarlet cloak flowing down his shoulders. Casta turned back to Caro. He understood his concerns. On the field, he couldn't direct the battle. But then, it didn't need directing.

'All the more reason to fight with them.'

'Yes, sir,' Caro said.

General Casta Allectus nodded. 'Then I will see you after the battle.'

'Aye, I'll see you at the feast.'

The General nodded with a smile but before he could move he noticed a movement down the hill. It was the Argonians; they were advancing. With a curse to steady himself he told the standard bearer to start the call. The man lifted the standard and horns rung through the Legion. Above him, the Emperor shifted his seat on his horse, watching intently. Without another word Casta rushed down to the front line of the battle, where the infantry were waiting. Grabbing a shield from his guard he took his place in the middle, by the eagle, dismissing the Tribune already there.

'Brace to take charge!' he bellowed. His voice rung out through the battlefield. The Argonians were moving swiftly forward. He pulled his helm over his head, also gilded, with a large scarlet crest. Standing just behind the line he saw arrows whip overhead and into the approaching enemy line. They tore through the ranks and the Argonians screeched their war cries as they charged, stumbling on the wounded as they rushed forward to try and escape the arrows, and destroy the hated Legions. They were fairly disorganised, not used to a pitched battle, but the Legion was. In a rush of pride for Casta, they drew their steel as one, locking their large rectangular shields together. Casta grinned, his fear evaporating as he drew confidence from the Legions immovability.

'Here they come, men. Just stay still and let them do the hard work of killing themselves.' The men roared an approval as another blast from a bugle whistled through their ranks. Casta could see the details of their scaly faces now, and he nodded with anticipation. He wasn't inclined to killing; he did it because he had to, and it was a fairly disgusting act, but the glory of the Empire was more important than himself. He was merely a tool.

_They're getting closer_, he observed with a rush of adrenaline. 'Steady now. Get ready.'

The Argonians were broken by the arrows; this was going to be easy. They were close now. Nearly there. And then, the two sides collided.

At first General Casta couldn't see anything. Everything was a blur and he was knocked back by a huge force that slammed into his chest. With a curse he picked himself up from the impact of the charge, and stood unsteadily. This was the vital part, he realised quickly. The first push was the worst. If they broke now, the battle was lost. Casta pulled himself forward, closer to the line. It was buckling.

'Together now. Lock your shields.' He started moving up the line. 'Lock your feet into the ground. Don't worry about getting muddy.' He singled out a soldier. 'Thrust, don't hack.' He turned back to the men at large, regaining formation and unity. 'Together. For the Empire!' The archers echoed his cry; the infantry were too busy. 'Yes, hold. Good!'

And then it was gone. The men were locked together. The Argonians were getting decimated as they tried to assault the solid line of the Legion. Casta moved closer to the line. The enemy were trying to force a gap, but were so far unsuccessful. Blood covered the shields of the front men, and the marsh was becoming soaked with it. Flesh covered the naked steel of the legionnaires. Teeth were shattered as the Argonians took the heavy Legion blades and their morale was leaving them. _It's over_, Casta knew.

No sooner had he thought that, he noticed another movement to his left. The Argonians were organising another attack. With a start he realised that they were going to try to break the line. An Argonian was organised them, covered in leather with steel pauldrons. An elaborate helm covered his head. He was presumably their king. He was dragging the lizards together, getting them to lock their own forces together in one solid attack. The rest of the Legion was tied down, save the reserve. Casta started running, calling out his orders. He knew what was going to happen.

The reserve men would be at the back of the battle, and he bellowed furiously. He saw movement; they were coming. But would it be in time for the charge? Casta wasn't sure.

The Argonians were rallying quickly, even as their main force held down the main line of infantry. The enemy king was starting to lead them forward, and the Argonians broke into a run. The arrows were largely missing them. He needed the relief force! Fear started building up as he realised that all his precautions may have been for nothing.

Casta shouted again and in a rush of metal and sweat the reserve were there. He threw them into a line, so they were ready to take the quickly approaching Argonian force. With the sing of steel, General Allectus drew his own steel. The King's force slammed into the line with explosive force, and it broke. Casta was thrown back, and he staggered before regaining his feet. The Argonian King had succeeded in breaking the main line, but the reserve force was ready. With a cry Casta leapt forward, slamming his blade into an Argonian's neck, urging his men to follow. It fell and he turned, blocking another blow and stepping back, ducking under his opponents guard and bringing his blade up through it's chest in one explosive movement that broke the Argonian's ribs. Warm blood rushed over his hands and Casta stepped back, looking around to see what was happening.

The battle was going well; the line was holding. It was time to push them back and hunt them down.

'Forward now! Push them back. Break the back of their army! Signal the second cavalry force.' He looked back at the fighting, now individual battles. To Casta's annoyance the Argonian King was fighting like a maniac. His axe and spear were felling men even as they tried to approach him. Casta started forward but before he could a legionnaire got in his way. His armour classified him as a Tribune and in a flash he dodged the King's spear and broke it before ramming his sword home into the rebel's shoulder. The King let out a hiss and fell, while the man wrenched off his helmet and shouted at the took of his voice;

'I'VE CAPTURED THE KING!' The Argonians looked at their leader in dismay and fell back, as the Imperial Legion pushed forward, crushing them between the reserve cavalry force that had circled round during the battle. It was over, Casta knew. They had won. Black Marsh was the Empire's once again.

With a surge of joy and pride rushing through him he called the end. 'Hail, the Talos Emperor! Ave frater Imperii!'

'Hail, brother Empire!' the men echoed and Casta grinned, looking around proudly as the adrenaline sunk back and the fatigue of battle washed over his limbs. He turned his attention to the lone Tribune, now surrounded by Penitus Oculatus, who were taking charge of the king.

'Hold,' he told the Emperor's guards before turning back to the Tribune, who was a Nord in his mid thirties, like Casta himself. 'You have done the Empire a great service.'

'I serve only the Empire,' he said humbly.

Casta raised his eyebrows. 'Indeed, a true patriot.' He clapped the man on his shoulder. 'You will see the Emperor with me now.'

'The Emperor?' he asked, uncertain.

Allectus nodded. 'Come with me.' To the Penitus Oculatus. 'Fall in.'

With that General Casta Allectus led the men up the slope, away from the end of the battle. The Tribune followed in a daze, stumbling up the hill as he realised he was going to meet the Emperor. Caro stepped in next to him and they grasped each others hands.

'Today is a great day,' the General told his Legate.

'Indeed, sir.'

Casta turned away as a horn rang out. It was the Emperor's horn.

'All hail, Talos Emperor!'

Casta knelt, as did everyone as the ripple spread throughout the entire army. The Argonian King was forced to his knees.

The Penitus Oculatus' ranks parted as the Emperor rode forward on his horse, his son following. The Emperor was a man in his early seventies, far older than most people could ever hope to live. He was once a strong man, but now his limbs were weak and thin, and his head bald. A strong white beard still adorned his face though, and his armour was finer than even Casta's own. A long scarlet cape flowed down his back, with golden thread adorning the sides. His son was much younger, only about thirty, with lush curly black hair and a strong jaw. Casta stood as the Emperor approached. No one else did.

'Hail, Talos Emperor,' he said, eyes to the floor.

'General Casta Victorus Gaius Allectus. It is good to see you again.' The Emperor's voice had a slight waver, caused by age, but he was as authorative as ever. In an unsure movement he began to dismount, but before he could get down his son dropped from his horse and assisted his father. The Emperor touched his shoulder before turning back to Casta. 'My son, Reman Marius Quentin Mede, the Crown Prince.'

'It is an honour, sire.'

Reman smiled. 'No more than my own to meet one of the greatest of Imperial Generals.'

'You flatter me, sire.'

'Maybe.' He turned back to his father who was looking down at the Nord legionnaire. Casta quickly engaged his attention.

'Talos,' he said using the traditional form of address for the Emperor (like 'Caesar' in Ancient Rome); 'this is the man who captured the Argonian King.'

'Is he now?' The Emperor looked curious and impressed. He turned to the Nord. 'Rise, Tribune. What's your name?'

'Haderus Brutus, Talos.' That probably wasn't his real name. Officers were given the right to take on an Imperial name, should they wish. The more 'names' a person had, the higher his rank, generally. Four was considered the maximum. Only Talos had more, and the old Septims of the third era.

The Emperor nodded approvingly. 'A fine Imperial name. You shall be rewarded for this. General.'

'Talos Emperor?'

'Make this man a Legate.'

Casta nodded, a little unsure with the quick handout of such a prestigious promotion. 'Of course, Talos.' He nodded at Caro who took the new Legate away to the command tents. The Emperor led the way up the short hill to his command tent, while Crown Prince Reman supported by him by the arm, discreetly enough to preserve the Emperor's dignity.

'So,' the Emperor began, as they neared his tent, 'tell me General Allectus, how was the fighting? I fear my eyes are not what they used to be.'

Casta felt uncomfortable talking about the Emperor's weaknesses, but he answered the question as if he hadn't heard the last part. 'It was good, Talos. The men fought well, and the Argonians were disheartened anyway.'

The Imperial nodded. 'Yes, indeed.' They entered the Emperor's tent and Reman led the way through the huge tent's corridors to a receiving hall where his father sat heavily in a high backed wooden throne. The Crown Prince sat near him and on the Emperor's indication, Casta sat on a wooden stool.

'This war is at an end, General?' the Emperor asked.

Casta nodded. 'Yes, Talos. We have just destroyed the last great Argonian resistance in Black Marsh.'

The Emperor nodded and Reman spoke properly for the first time. 'What do you suggest as the next course of action, General?'

General Allectus thought carefully. 'Keep a large garrison here and an able Governor to keep the peace. Seize the Argonian royal family and choose a likely successor from their ranks, one who will uphold Imperial rule.'

'It will not last,' the Emperor said quietly. Reman turned to his father.

'It is fine now. We have Black Marsh again. From here we can undermine the Khajiit forces that will support the Dominion.'

'And what about those in Morrowind my son? What will they do?'

Reman looked unsure of his answer, but Casta came to his rescue. 'I think the Crown Prince was going to suggest a two pronged attack from Skyrim and Black Marsh.' He paused; 'sire?'

Reman nodded his assent. 'Yes, of course.'

The Emperor sighed. 'Skyrim. Balgruuf has never been the most cooperative of Kings.'

'But he will fight for his Empire when needed, won't he?' Reman asked.

The Emperor considered the question. 'He fought for it once, weak as the illusion was. I will not lie, the Empire is much stronger now, but only in thought, not in mind. We will need Skyrim, but I fear Jon Stormcloak will not give it to us.'

'Jon Stormcloak?' The name was familiar to Casta. 'The Dragonborn?'

'And Jarl of Windhelm. He controls the Blades, and most of Skyrim is indebted to him. So are we, as a matter of fact. It was he who fought Ulfric Stormcloak for control of Skyrim, all those years ago.'

'I remember him,' Casta said quietly. 'He's a strong man, or he was when I last saw him. He fought for a united Tamriel,' he pointed out.

'So did Ulfric Stormcloak. Do you remember? He fought the Dominion in out ranks?'

Casta shook his head. 'My apologies, Talos. I was too young to remember.'

The Emperor leaned forward, his hazel eyes alert. 'But how strong does the blood run between them? If Jon Stormcloak is anything like his father I think we have cause to worry.'

Casta shook his head stubbornly. 'He fought for us once.'

'But why?' The Emperor asked.

'I don't know. He loves his Empire?'

'Do you believe that?'

The Emperor's scorn hurt, but it was too well placed for Casta to feel angry or resentful. 'No.'

'I think that we may never know his true motives,' the Emperor concluded.

They lapsed into silence before Casta spoke again. 'Why are we talking about this, Talos?'

The Emperor looked tired and defeated. His eyes were on the verge of tears, Casta noticed with a shock. 'War is coming. We put on a good show, but the truth is that the Thalmor are ready for war. They will attack within the next few months.'

The room fell silent as they all processed this chilling news. Casta felt his head compress, like a metal brace was crushing in his skull. He couldn't breathe, such was the dark fear that engulfed him totally. He looked over at the Emperor in disbelief, smiling desperately like it was some kind of a joke, as his eyes betrayed his fear. Casta finally found his tongue. 'The Thalmor?' The sound was weak and lonely.

Reman looked just as shocked. His expression was grim, but his mouth was moving nervously, indicating his panic.

'Yes, the Thalmor are preparing to attack.' The Emperor looked fierce and strong. 'That is why you are here.' He turned to his son. 'You, Reman, will lead the Empire to victory.' He turned his attention to Casta. 'You, General, have the much harder task. It will be up to you to defend the Empire and best the Thalmor on the field of battle.' Casta was shocked and he tried to open his mouth but the Emperor held up a hand, stilling him. 'I am appointing you as the Prefect of the Penitus Oculatus, and First General of the Empire.' He turned back to the two men. 'You both have great destinies. So too does Skyrim. You will not succeed on your own. You must unite Tamriel.'

'How?' Reman choked. Casta looked desperately to the Emperor, hoping for a plan, a destiny, a prophecy, anything.

'None of you will unite Tamriel. There is one, but he is not here.'

'Jon Stormcloak?' Casta asked, desperately.

'A son of Skyrim will rise. This I have seen. He will defeat the Thalmor, and it is your job to guide and protect him.'

Reman looked ready to protest. 'But-'

'No, please,' the Emperor said wearily. 'It is up to you now, and him. I can do no more.' And then he slumped back and closed his eyes. Casta looked on as a cold wave of icy shock engulfed him. 'Is he?'

'Dead?' Reman said grimly, his eyes full of pain. _He must have known this was coming for a while, _Casta realised. 'Yes. All hail the Titus Attribus Draninus Mede II, Emperor of the Cyrodillic Empire, and Lord of the Imperial City.' He turned to Casta, standing. 'I will expect your loyalty, General, over the coming months.' And then he swept from the room with one last, lingering look at his dead father to tell the Legions of the news. Casta was left, watching the dead leader will all the fear of a doomed man. The Thalmor were coming.

**Review guys! I hope that you guys liked Casta. Reman was pretty fun to write, and also the Thalmor are coming in now! Slowly, slowly. Please REVIEW!**


	9. The Trappings of Power

**Well, I wrote this chapter as quickly as I could because of all the great REVIEWS you gave me! The story will begin to take off properly over the next few chapters. **

**The thanks: Delphine hater and Blade agent99 really got together to discuss this story. It's great for me. Inversely I'm getting more reviews! Anyway, To Delphine hater, thanks for the reviews! They were disbanded but in the game you can restore them. Jon did after he routed out the bad ones. You'll see them eventually in great detail through a POV. I'm glad you liked Titus Mede's appearance, but as for Talos arriving. Well, I'll think about it. I may include him discreetly, but it depends on what happens really. Like I said, I'm going for a degree of realism. I do like the hurry up reviews. (I noticed the new ones. It's why I wrote this as quickly as I could.) Blade agent99 is right. It's only been three days. Anyway, thanks! To LastoftheOldScrolls, thanks for the Follower and Favourite. To Blade agent99, thanks for the review! I'm really glad you like the Legions and Casta (we really needed a likable General.) You like the Thalmor? Well, you'll like bits of what happens in this story then. I tried to get this out for your sickness but I failed a little. I'm really please4d you like the Talos Emperor bits as well! To Teknopathetic, thanks for the Story Favourite! To Kyubbiman, thanks for the Story Favourite! To DragonXander, thanks for the review! No, really review twice! Three times! I'm pretty pleased that you liked Jon as a Jarl. That's great! I'm also glad that you liked Ysold and Jon together! Alsfur will show a little more skill now, don't worry. Nope, Paarthy wasn't saying that Jon was about to die. He was just literally saying 'I'll see you later.' Thanks, anyway! I'm looking forward to writing Balgruuf and Jon together. Young rulers do, do okay sometimes. **

**You guys seemed to like him, so I'm telling you now, it's a Thorek chapter next. **

**Carl Alsfur Stormcloak**

**Greta was a fiery one. **She was very willing and had practically dragged him to his chambers after the feast. At first Alsfur was unsure. The local girls in the Snow District were one thing, or even a Shatter-Shield, but an Amol was a different matter entirely. After all, her father was probably sleeping in the opposite room. If Father found out he wouldn't be happy, but then why would he ever have to?

Alsfur had never found it hard to get with women. He seemed to possess the easy charisma his father lacked, and it was particularly useful with women. But this time, it wasn't he who led the way back to his chambers.

Greta pulled him along, kissing him with fiery passion as he tried to steer them to avoid the late night servants. It wasn't hard, and in any case they wouldn't say anything, but it paid to be a careful. There would be hell if Thane Amol found out that his daughter was no longer a virgin. _But then_, Alsfur considered as he was pulled along at a rapid pace, the way Greta told it, _she wasn't one anyway. _It wasn't that he feared Amol. He didn't in the slightest. It would just be uncomfortable and troublesome should he find out. It was the same with his Father, but in that case Alsfur didn't want to shame the family. _The wise thing would have been to refuse…_

They reached his room, along the corridor that led up to Mother and Father's chamber, and slammed through the door. Alsfur kicked it shut and pushed Greta away, onto the large bed. She giggled and he flashed her a quick smile as he pulled off his belt and shirt. To his favour, Alsfur was well muscled, and young. He could see that Greta was impressed. He got onto the bed and positioned himself over her, reaching for the laces on her dress but then it happened. With a sharp intake of breath Alsfur whipped round to look in the direction of the sounds. It was Mother and Father… having sex.

Alsfur felt the hot wave of embarrassment sweep over him and he grimaced. He tried to move closer to Greta again, but she pushed him back as he frowned at the sound.

'What's that?'

Alsfur tried to shrug it off. 'It's nothing. Forget it.'

'Okay.' They started kissing but the sounds got louder. Mother was goddamn screaming again. Greta pulled back again. 'Alsfur, what is that?' Her voice was hard. _Why was it his job to explain his parent's private life? Or not so private,_ he thought angrily.

'It's my parents.'

Greta looked surprised, and a little shocked. 'Aren't they too old to do it anymore?'

'Apparently not,' he replied succinctly.

'Oh.' She got up. 'Do you think we should be doing it now?'

'Why not?' he said with a forced smile. 'It's not like they're going to come in here. They're obviously too occupied anyway. Think of it this way; the more occupied they are, the more out own sound will be muffled.'

'Muffled?'

'Believe me, you're going to make a lot of noise.'

Greta grinned again. Her excitement was obviously starting to outweigh the shock of discovering his parent's 'hobbies'.

Alsfur decided to play it hard now. 'Well, you can go if you want.' He got off of her. 'Your room is down the corridor, on the right.'

'Why do I have to go?' Now she wanted to have it because she might not get it. Just the way Alsfur liked it.

'Don't worry about it. I won't tell.' He held open the door.

'But I want to stay.'

Alsfur grinned as he closed the door. 'Then why didn't you just say that in the first place?'

**It was a successful night. **Alsfur woke up slowly, stretching his stiff muscles before looking back down at Greta. She was still asleep, but Alsfur wasn't for bed talk so he got up and went to his wardrobe to dress. Nothing was happening today so he just threw on a white shirt with billowy sleeves, a black leather tunic that went over the shirt, leaving the billowy sleeves uncovered coupled with a black hose and high boots. He had just washed his face and wet back his dark hair when Greta woke up.

Alsfur watched her as he took a belt with silver buckles from a table top and fastened it around his waist. She woke slowly, but when she noticed Stormcloak fully dressed she looked put out. There obviously wouldn't be another round.

'Why are you up so early?' she asked.

Alsfur shrugged as he buckled on his sword and a dagger. 'I like being up early.'

Greta nodded and started to dress as well. Alsfur watched until she put on her dress before strapping on some leather ties around his wrists to hold the ends of the sleeves down.

'You can leave when you want. Be careful exiting. I'm going to see my father.' Without further ado Alsfur left the room, but before he could even step further up the corridor to come up to the main bedroom, he spotted Carl Ralof Wood standing by the door, alert. With a pang of anxiety, he rushed up to him.

'What's going on?'

'Another attack.' Ralof looked strained, and Alsfur could tell he shared his own feelings.

'When?' Fear began its slow descent up his body, but he pushed it away. He didn't feel fear.

'Early morning. Lady Ysold is in there with him.'

'Let me in!' Alsfur tried to move forward but Ralof shoved him back.

'No! Lady Ysold wants you to make sure the Thane doesn't find out about any of this. She also wants you to look after your brother.'

'Don't they want me in there?' Alsfur felt unwanted. He could just hear muffled screams. Mother must have gagged Father. With a sinking feeling he realised it had been right on time. They came every month or so.

Ralof looked sympathetic. 'They need you to look after Windhelm.'

'Of course,' he said quietly, as he realised how much responsibility they were giving him. With a start he remembered Greta. 'Oh shit!'

Ralof looked worried. 'What?'

'I've got Greta in my room.'

The Housecarl exploded. 'Why the hell is she in your room?'

Alsfur looked sheepish. 'Well, you know…'

'You had sex with her!'

'Yeah, but that's not the point,' he countered. 'What happens if she notices you at the door or gods forbids, wants an audience with the Jarl!'

Ralof grasped the implications immediately. 'You have to get her out of here!'

'Me! Why me?'

'You shagged the bloody girl!'

'A minor detail.' Alsfur saw Ralof's expression. 'Fine, I'll get rid of her. Make something up for anyone who comes here. I'll do the same.'

'Good; you do that,' the Housecarl agreed.

Alsfur raced back to his room as Greta came out, trapping her in the doorway.

She looked surprised and smiled a weak smile. 'Alsfur? What are you doing back?'

He thought quickly. 'My father wants me to show you the city.'

'Does he? Jarl Stormcloak? Can I see him?'

'No!' Alsfur caught himself quickly. 'He's busy. Just come with me.' He dragged her away, and through the corridors of the Palace of Kings. They emerged out into a cold day, with crisp spring weather. He beckoned the stable master from the room and a few guards.

'I can't accompany you. I'm wanted in court, but these are fine men,' he said as he helped her mount. 'They will show you the city.'

'But that defeats the point,' she protested, but before she could dismount Alsfur slapped the horse's rump and it took of at a canter. The men at arms followed on mounts.

The heir let out a sign as he watched her being taken off before striding back into the palace and looking around. It was still early morning, and no one was around. Alsfur took a deep breath before making his way up to the Throne of Ysgramor, the legendary seat of Clan Stormcloak.

It was a huge, imposing seat, made of solid granite. He took another deep breath as he readied himself to climb the dias to sit. His heart was in his mouth and his mind was racing; he had never sat it in before, not even as a child. _Is this how Father felt when he first sat in it? _

With trepidation, and a heavy step, Alsfur climbed the dias, slowly, his legs weak. It seemed a much longer walk now, even though it was only a few steps. With a thudding heart he sat, sinking into the throne, almost bewildered by what was happening. It was a strange feeling, sitting there for the first time. He felt powerful, but also restricted, as if everyone was watching his every move, even though there was no one even in the room. Alsfur Stormcloak let out a deep breath and sank back, looking around expectantly. _Now what? _

Even as he thought that, Brunwulf Free-Winter, Father's Steward, entered the hall. He didn't look surprised to see Alsfur there. With him were several guards and they took their positions along the length of the great throne room.

'Alsfur. You will be taking court today,' he said without preamble.

Stormcloak nodded, still wary as to what was expected of him. Brunwulf's expression softened. 'You'll be fine. I'll help you.'

Alsfur nodded his thanks and the Steward took his place next to Alsfur, slightly behind him. There was a stool for him to sit on.

'The first is Thane Amol. He will expect you to explain your Father's absence. A letter was received last night from the King. That is the excuse.'

'The King's sent him a letter?' Alsfur was as surprised as anyone to hear of this. Windhelm and Whiterun had been in a stalemate for years.

'Aye,' Brunwulf confirmed. 'I don't know the details though.'

Alsfur was about to speak again but then Thane Amol entered, looking around as if searching for the Jarl. He noticed Alsfur sitting on the throne and made a beeline for him.

'Carl Alsfur. Have you seen Jarl Stormcloak?'

This was it. He had to make this convincing. 'The Jarl is occupied. A letter from the King arrived last night. He sends his regard- apologies and, will not be court today,' Alsfur finished haltingly. He decided that he needed to finish it off. 'I am holding court in his absence.'

'How old are you, boy?' Amol asked, looking at him intently. His questioning tone made Alsfur angry that he didn't accept his word and it made him smooth and authorative.

'Twenty. I am the Jarl here in my father's absence. I will expect the same respect, Thane Amol. You will defer to me as such.'

Amol looked surprised at Alsfur's command and he inclined his head, but not resentfully. 'Of course, Thegn,' he said, using the traditional form of address for a ruling heir.

'My father will see you soon, of course. Until then, you may do as you wish.' Alsfur thought that sounded too dismissive so he tried to amend it. 'You can stay if you want?'

'I will see the city instead, my Thegn. My thanks.'

'As you wish.' It sounded strange to his ears to be so formal.

Thane Amol left, but just then his younger brother Ulfgar entered the room, looking lost. Alsfur felt for him; he couldn't understand Father's disability properly. Ulfgar saw his older brother and rushed over to him.

'Where's Mother?'

'She's with Father,' Alsfur said, leaning down from the throne.

'What's happened?'

Alsfur looked around nervously. He stepped down from the throne and led his brother into a side corridor off of the main hall so they could talk in private. Once there, he knelt down to rest his hands on his brother's shoulders.

'Father's sick at the moment. I'm taking his place.'

'When will he get better?'

'Soon,' Alsfur lied. He had no idea when father would get better, but his brother took comfort from that. 'While he's gone, Mother wants us to look after the Jarldom for him.'

Ulfgar brightened immediately. 'I get to sit on the throne?!'

'Of course you can. Do you want to sit on it now?'

He nodded and Alsfur raised himself up, and led his brother back to the throne room. His brother was easily distracted, but soon he too would share the anxiety and uncertainty that made up Alsfur's life now. Soon. It was dark days.

**Stupid Alsfur. I wanted to finish it at several points but he wouldn't let me. One day, he will pay for his insolence against his master. (Don't worry, I'm not crazy.) Anyway, review!**


	10. Exit the Son

**A Thorek chapter. Still pretty fun to write. The story is finally moving forward a bit so hopefully it will please you guys who (quite rightly) think that it is moving very slowly. **

**The thanks: Loads of reviews from Blade agent99! I still think you're crazy to like the Thalmor, but oh well. Daedra are not the same as Talos, really. I think Ulfgar would make a good Greybeard actually. It's a good idea. I'm really glad you like Alsfur and his multiple sides (brilliant!), but I think that if you can get it, you should never slow down. I've just got to say quickly, Jon is only 38 (45-55 would make him Ulfric's age if he was alive!) and Ysold is 37, so they're still in the area to keep going really. But anyway, I'm pleased that you're looking forward to Thorek and Ulster will return soon, don't worry. After that, POV's will converge and I will start killing some off so hopefully the story will quicken. Cool! I'm really happy to hear that my story has helped with school! I remember doing The Tempest. It's a good play, but King Lear is better personally. (Edmund is one of my all time favourite bad guys.) That's two of you who liked Greta's dragging of Alsfur (that's good) and I'm really happy that Jon is your favourite character. He's way more popular than I ever imagined he would be. (Holds up hands). Put away the crossbow…**

**To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Alsfur too is more popular than I imagined he would be as well, and that's really great as well! I can't make ay promises about who will live and who will die but (sorry) I like keeping you guys on your toes. (Again, sorry for the evilness.) You like me? That's good. What do you mean? **

**By the way, Ulster and other POV's will be returning soon. That said, POV roles may increase or decrease as the story progresses. Just saying. **

**Thorek Silver-Blood**

**Thorek Silver-Blood was in** his chamber packing anything he needed for his trip east. In the end he hadn't talked to his father about going to Whiterun. Instead he had obtained the supplies from his uncle, whose cold manner had evaporated overnight.  
He was packing these supplies when his father came in. Jarl Thongvor Silver-Blood was not a tall man, being of average height. However like his son he was well built and lithe, and this scared off most would be attackers. Unlike his son, he was bald with some grey close cropped hair on the back of his head.  
He strode into Thorek's chamber and waited there, his presence dominating the room. Thorek turned and rose to his full height, his grey eyes meeting his Father's own.  
'You still intend to continue with this folly,' Father began without preamble, his eyes flicking down to note the supplies. It wasn't a question; it was a statement.  
'I do, Father.'  
'You hardly have the right to call me that anymore.' He tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes scrutinising Thorek's. 'Not after your betrayal.'  
Thorek returned to his packing before answering. 'My betrayal?'  
His Father stayed put in his place. 'What would you call it?'  
'An honourable position.'  
His Father snorted. 'What do you know about honour?' Thorek looked down, and didn't answer, feeling suddenly insecure. 'That's what I thought.' His Father's words bit into the shield he painstakingly constructed over the years, beating it down. 'Give up this folly and return as my heir.'  
Thorek turned, his eyes blazing, their long noses almost touching. 'No; I'm going to court and I _will_ accept this position.'  
Father's face was taut with suppressed fury. 'You want honour. Is that it? What about honour to your family! ' Thorek didn't answer. 'Fine. Go, and leave my name here. You aren't worthy of it.' Without another word he turned and strode from the room.  
Thorek didn't feel better. He didn't feel worse either. He felt drained. All his life this conversation had been looming, threatening to escape and now it had. But the result hadn't been what Thorek had wanted; it was as he had expected. It had changed nothing.  
**Thorek didn't talk to his** Father over the next few days, preferring to keep his distance. Through his uncle he did find out that he would be riding with Father, as he too had been summoned to court for unknown reasons.  
On the morning of their departure Thorek woke with a crackling sense anticipation. He had been waiting for, and dreading, this moment ever since he had received the letter that had offered him the position of Lord Housecarl. What Thorek knew was that as soon as left the city he will have given up the life he knew and begun his new one, replacing stability and power with uncertainty and servitude. And honour. Honour if nothing else.  
The morning was actually quite warm, a welcome surprise, and light broke through the clouds. As a result Thorek donned his long grey coat with its silver buckles and left his dark green cloak in his saddlebags. Silver-Blood rode a spirited black stallion; he always liked to make an impression.  
Father left him waiting. He could have ridden there and back by the time the Jarl came down from the keep, swinging himself onto his own readied horse. A dozen guardsmen surrounded him, including Father's own Housecarl, all in mail with swords and daggers at their sides. They carried bows and quivers and wore the silver-grey surcoat of Clan Silver-Blood, which had replaced the deep green of Clan Oath.  
'We're leaving,' Father told the guard next to him. The Nord bellowed a command and the men started to get into formation. Thorek pushed past the guards, trying to get to his Father but the Jarl's honour guard blocked him, probably deliberately! He fell back reluctantly and rode behind them, seething as he watched lesser men ride next to his father.  
**They stopped at the end** of the day in a town called Katharsis, the seat of Clan Rock-Feller. They left the men outside, who proceeded to set up tents, while Thongvor Silver-Blood and his retinue entered the longhouse to meet his Thane. Thorek was fully prepared to wait outside, the seething anger of earlier having given way to a stubborn refusal to comply with his father in any way, but Father's quick beckons forced him up and he followed the Jarl into the longhouse reluctantly.

It was warm; a large fire blazed in the centre of the hall. Thane Rock-Feller had been forewarned of the Jarl's arrival and a feast had been prepared. He was descending the steps now to kneel in front of Father, and display his servitude. Thorek took his place next to Jarl Thongvor, uncomfortable in the political nest that was a Thane's longhouse but otherwise at ease next to Father. He took the opportunity to look around, surveying the longhouse with dissatisfaction. _It's slightly shit, isn't it? _he thought mildly. _Understone Keep is far more impressive. _

'And young Thorek, isn't it?'

The younger Silver-Blood turned around with a start, brushing his hair from his eyes. 'What?'

The Thane had a hint of a smile on his face and one man laughed, already seated at the table. Thorek shot him a withering glare, embarrassment washing over him.

'I was greeting you,' the Thane supplied.

'Right, of course,' Thorek said dismissively. Rock-Feller looked affronted but the younger Silver-Blood just ignored him, studying the room, and the man who laughed at him, intently.

Thane Rock-Feller continued, looking annoyed. 'This way, my Jarl, if you wish to wash the dust of travel from your skin?'

'No,' Thongvor decided. 'Bring a basin in here. There's no need to make others wait.'

'Yes, of course, Jarl.' The Thane led them to their seats. Father was put in the high seat, Thorek on his right and the Thane sat on his left. Thorek didn't bother keeping tabs on Father's retinue. They weren't important enough to matter to him. The food was brought out but Thorek ignored it, instead turning to his Father.

'What's all this about?' he hissed, angry at the whole situation.

'Appearances, nothing more.' He called for some wine. 'Don't worry, you are no more my son now, than before.'

Thorek leaned back. 'Yes, of course. I would hate to think that you might have actually _changed_ your mind.' He looked at his father slyly. 'Appearances must be kept up after all, right?'

His father looked at him disdainfully. 'How was the back of the march?'

With a start Thorek realised that he was deliberately goading him. Well, he had promised not to go along with his Father's wishes, so instead he replied nonchalantly, as if he hadn't heard the challenge.

'I can't complain. There's some very interesting people there, and we're the last to get caught in the bandit ambush.'

'As if they'd even bother with you,' Father shot back.

Thorek gave him a knowing smile. 'I'm not sure. The people at the back are good for recruiting. At least the bandits know they aren't all poncy arseholes. He flashed his father a white grin.

'What are you implying?' Father asked, his tone low and threatening.

Thorek frowned. 'I could ask you the same question.'

'I am your father-'

'Oh, really? You've certainly made it bloody clear haven't you!' Thorek shot back, his voice raised.

'Quiet boy!' Father snapped.

Thorek gave him an insolent stare and his father turned away furiously. His son smiled in satisfaction before looking at the guest on his right.

The man next to him was a wheezy old Nord, who looked closer to death than old age. He was coughing furiously, and Thorek drew back a little, watching him disdainfully. Hopefully he would be of some interest.

'Steady there. '

The man looked startled. 'My pardons.'

'We don't want to make Death's job too easy.'

'What are you saying?' He looked angry now. Thorek hated it when they got angry.

'It doesn't matter.' Before he could stop himself he continued. 'You'd be dead anyway by the time I've explained it.'

He looked outraged but then Thorek spotted the man who had laughed at him earlier during the greeting ceremony. 'Hold that thought,' he told the old man before quickly rising to follow the Nord. His Father shot him a look.

'Where are you going?'

'To sort out a loose end.' Before he could stop him, Thorek was gone, following the other Nord down a corridor, presumably to the latrine. He turned a corner and Silver-Blood flitted round it, coming outside into the crisp evening air. The man turned to see him, an annoyed look on his face.

'Who are you? Why are you following me?'

'I'm allowed to go to the latrine without your permission aren't I, _my Jarl_,' he replied mockingly.

'It's Carl actually, you little shit.'

Thorek nodded. 'Right, of course. Very appropriate phrasing actually. I'll just be going.' Silver-Blood stepped past him before sweeping his leg. The Carl fell, nearly into the waste that covered the muddy ground leading to the latrine, but Thorek caught him.

'Steady. You wouldn't want to fall down into the shit, would you?' The Carl looked shocked. 'But you know what; you just did, when you insulted me, in the longhouse. You remember?'

The Nord recognised him with an uncertain look. 'It was just a joke, my lord. You understand don't you?'

He nodded. 'I understand.' Thorek pulled the man up. 'I'm not a comedian like yourself, but I have my own little joke to show you?'

'I'm not a come-'

Before he could respond, Thorek threw into the shit viciously and stepped back.

'It was just a joke,' he bellowed at him. 'Really fucking funny.' Silver-Blood turned away and back into the hall. The old man he had insulted earlier was gone, which was good, because Thorek didn't have any more jokes for him. He was feeling too angry and wound up now. Thorek slumped back into his seat, breathing heavily through his nose as he glared around the room. He was sick of all of it; the people, the politics, the lies, and his father. The sooner they arrived at Whiterun, the better.

**Please review! Hopefully Thorek is continuing to be the anti-villain/hero I wanted from him!**


	11. The Thane

**Don't worry. Over the next two chapters you'll see the last two POV's. The next chapter should be pretty good because we'll say hello to the first mage in my story! (Bar that stupid one I added in Ulfric's first POV. That was a mistake.) I've got my own magic system worked out and I will be able to finally explain the many complexities of 'my' magic! Seriously looking forward to writing him. Also, he won't just be a random guy. He's very special. **

**The thanks: Thanks for the review, Blade Agent99. Nope, no one thinks Ulfric is thirty four (sorry). he has to be about fifty really. In the Game Guide it tells you this stuff (kind of). Also, really pleased you liked Thorek. he definitely got a mixed opinion this time. Cool. Most people go for Windhelm or Solitude. Nope, Talos and co are gods. The Princes are just powerful daedric. What confuses you about the 11 years thing? By the way, great job on the role in the Tempest! Nope, I don't worship Talos or any god. I can't be bothered. (Well, I am inclined to Akatosh.) To DragonXander, thanks for the review! I'm pretty old fashioned myself, but I wanted to give Alsfur a less chivalrous point. (Going for mixed characters this time.) He is pretty respectable. I'm glad you like him. Also, thanks for the other review. I'm really pleased you liked Thorek in all his messed up glory. He is suited for fighting alone… To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I consider you a friend as well, so that's good. I thought it was fairly clear on why Thongvor hated Thorek serving the High King. He loses his only heir. To Lisana, thanks for the Follower! Thank you everyone! **

**Okay, Tor. Cool guy. He will become _very_ important later, as will many characters as other POV's die, etc. By the way, thank you HereLies for the great editing job! **

**Thane Tor Blackmoore **

**Thane Tor Blackmoore entered the **palacein a flurry of snow and cold air. He looked around at the Palace of Kings, with its rich stonework and stable structure before moving further into the hall. Tor made for the nearest guard who was standing on duty.

'The Jarl's meeting?'

The guard looked surprised by his forthright nature before noticing his rank and answering appropriately. 'Up in his solar, my Thane.'

The Jarl had sent out messengers two weeks ago, summoning his Thanes to Windhelm immediately. Tor had left as soon as he could; after all, a Thane did not defy his Jarl.

Tor nodded to him and made his way up there, brushing past guards and servants until he reached the second floor of the palace. A long corridor was spread out before him, but Tor noticed the guards outside one of the further doors and he made for it, his fur trimmed boots clicking off the stone floor.

He arrived in front of it and regarded the guards coolly. 'Thane Blackmoore, here to see the Jarl.'

'Do you any proof?' one of the them asked. _They're more persistent than the one below. _

He pulled out his badge of office and made to move past them, but they stopped him again.

'What?' he asked, icily.

'Begging your pardons, Thane, but we are required to relieve you of your weapons.'

_The Jarl grows weak, _Tor observed. 'Be careful with them.' He passed along his longsword and war axe, both made of fine steel with edges honed carefully, before moving past them and into the solar.

Itwas large and well lit. A black rug covered the centre of the room where a long table was set out. Tor thought that it could hardly be called a solar, more a conference room, but as always the Stormcloaks did things in their own way. The banners of each major Clan were arrayed behind high-backed chairs, and their colours adorned the cushions of the seats. The older the Thaned0m, the closer they were placed near the Jarl's own high backed seat. Clan Blackmoore was placed on Stormcloak's right. It was an extremely old clan.

Most of the Thanes were already there; six of them, including Tor. He quickly scanned the faces and noticed that Thane Torbjorn Shatter-Shield had yet to arrive. He was always reluctant to honour his oaths, but eventually he always did; everyone did. Tor remembered his Clan's motto; _The Jarl's Man. _It couldn't have been more appropriate now. 

A Thane approached him, this one Roggi Knot-Beard.

'How are you, Blackmoore? Holding up against these winter snows?'

'Aye, we're fine.' Tor didn't know what to say next. Small talk had never been his strong suit.

'The entrances to my mines are actually starting to freeze, can you believe it? I told them to start readying the shovels months ago but you'll find in Kynesgrove the respect the Thane receives is limited.'

'You should to be stronger,' Tor told him. Roggi looked offended but Blackmoore didn't realise his mistake. He had basically insulted Roggi's strength as a Thane.

'Right, well I'll leave the Blackmoore to his own devices,' Roggi said coldly. And with that he made his way over to another Thane who greeted him with far more welcome.

Tor sighed. It wasn't that he looked down on the other Thanes, as they thought, rather he had never been comfortable in others company. He preferred his own group of good, loyal friends. Sadly, the other Thanes had quickly gotten the impression that because he boasted a joined name (and therefore an ancient name, as opposed to a hyphenated name) he assumed he was better than they were. This wasn't true. Tor was missing his wife, Sonjia's company; by this point she would have greeted everyone in the room and have gotten caught up on all the latest gossip. Even his Housecarl's presence would have been welcome, but he had remained outside the Palace as requested. The babble of talk was broken by the arrival of Shatter-Shield and then the announcement of the Jarl's arrival. They didn't bow as was the normal custom, but in these circumstances each Thane moved to stand by the banner of their Clan, in front of their own seat, to allow the Jarl free reign of the room.

Jarl Jon Stormcloak entered with his own Housecarl behind him. He had left Kodaav, the ancestral sword of Clan Stormcloak, presumably in his chambers. He strode in weaponless, in a black doublet with the sigil of the Stormcloaks on the chest; the Eastmarch bear.

He looked around briefly, his silver blue eyes assessing the Thanes before moving to his own high seat at the head of the table.

'Sit, if you will my Thanes.' His voice was clear and sharp, breaking through thoughts and conversation. It was a voice that only a user of the thu'um could possess. Tor noticed a slight rasp to it this time, but he disregarded it promptly.

The Stormcloaks were famous for their lineage, boasting a descent from Ysgramor's second son. They had all controlled the thu'um to a certain extent, but there was no doubt that Jarl Jon Stormcloak was the most powerful. His past deeds had won Tor's grudging respect, even though he had been the main cause for the destruction of his own father's 'rebel' army eleven years ago, an army Tor had fought in. But life went on, and here they all were.

They sat and he took some parchment from his Housecarl. 'I assume that you are all curious as to why I have summoned you here.' There was a brief murmuring before he cut it off by raising his hand slightly. _He has certainly always had an air of authority around him, _Tor conceded.

'I have called you here because of this.' He held up the letter. 'This, my Thanes, is a letter from the King.'

The Thanes began to roar their displeasure, but Tor just watched them in silence. He had nothing against the King, though he knew that most of the Thanes had followed their Jarl's lead in shunning any contact with him. This, however, had been impossible for the Blackmoore Clan, who held land on the edge of Eastmarch, and had always worked closely with Whiterun throughout the years. So, Tor had taken the middle road and lessened his contact, but still kept the trading alive on the western border. Although not a direct defiance, Tor doubted that Jarl Stormcloak would be pleased to discover any of his secret businesses so he told no one, and showed no one.

While Tor mused on this, the Jarl had managed to subdue all the Thanes and he turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

'So, you see I have a dilemma here. I cannot disobey the King's direct order, but equally I have no wish to see him, and break my silence. Any suggestions, Thanes? Remember, this decision effectively decides whether we return to the King's rule, or continue to act independently.'

A Thane, Roggi again, slammed his fist on the table in the tradition way to attract the Jarl's attention.

'Thane Knot-Beard,' the Jarl allowed.

'I think that you might see the King. You could use this visit to both discover what he intends and protest on the Silver-Blood affair.'

'The King will hear nothing more on the Silver-Bloods; he is done with them, as is any man who brings them up. No, Thane Knot-Beard, I would prefer to keep my head,' he smiled thinly before turning to the next Nord. 'Yes, Thane Shatter-Shield.'

Torbjorn Shatter-Shield, a Nord of fifty-one stood. 'My Jarl, you should refuse the King and sit out this protest until the Silver-Blood's and their pets are removed from power.'

Jarl Stormcloak shook his head. 'I cannot openly defy the King, not at such a time. The Thalmor are beginning to overstep their boundaries and we cannot be split by another civil war.' _The Jarl has already made his decision; this is merely a formality,_ Tor observed quietly. So far none of the other Thanes seemed to have noticed this.

'Then go to him, but act curtly, and present your concerns in person, reasonably' Thane Shatter-Shield suggested.

'Aye, that seemed like the only course to me. I will see the King then.' _The Jarl has manipulated the talk so that it would seem that he accepted our opinion, when in fact he did nothing of the sort, _Tor thought, somewhat approvingly. The nobles began to talk among themselves, but Jon Stormcloak overrode them again.

'That was not the only reason for this meeting, my Thanes.' He motioned to his Housecarl who pulled out a long sheet of parchment from his belt. The Jarl took it and turned back to face his bannermen. 'I will take this opportunity to hold the small council, as you are all present.' The small council was the meeting where the Jarl met his Thanes and discussed issues affecting the hold.

'Look at this.' He handed the document over to Tor, who took it carefully. He looked down on the parchment, before passing it along. It was movement details, those of the Thalmor. They were moving along Cyrodiil's southern border, admittably with more aggression than before, but they had been doing something similar for years, and Tor had it mapped out anyway at Jarl's Head, the seat of his power, courtesy of his own informants, so he didn't react all that strongly to it. The Jarl must have shared Tor's opinion because he too made no comment.

Jarl Jon took it back and handed it to his Housecarl before turning back to them. 'I would also like to talk about the Daedric worship situated in the eastern mountains, as brought to my attention by Thane Knot-Beard. Boethiah is the Prince in question, and I fear the cult up there is becoming bold.'

'What do you mean?' Thane Agnar Bosworth, only a youth of eighteen, asked.

'I mean, Thane Agnar, that they have been more reports of abductions from the surrounding settlements. Thane Roggi himself will tell you more, I'm sure.'

'We have been getting more complaints from the people,' he agreed.

'Then why bring it here before us!' Thane Shatter-Shield demanded. 'It is your own problem. Get the men sworn to you to deal with it.'

Jarl Jon Stormcloak remained silent, watching to see what he would say.

'I will then,' Roggi said tightly, without putting up a fight.

'Good,' Shatter-Shield agreed, mollified.

The Jarl spoke up again, ignoring the last heated exchange. That was good; it paid to give the Thane's room to discuss how they wanted to. 'I think it would also be prudent to talk about the dark elf population in the Snow Quarter.'

'You mean the Grey Quarter,' one of the other Thanes, Balbus Amol, interjected.

'No, Thane Balbus; I mean the Snow Quarter,' Jarl Stormcloak said icily. 'The Dark Elf population want a representative in court, to voice their needs.'

'Why would we give it to them?' Thane Seastride asked. He was prickly with his pride. Tor decided it was time that he made himself heard.

'Because, Thane Seastride, we could be looking at a revolt, should they feel that they are not being listened to,' he said.

'Who cares? They are not Skyrim citizens. They have no rights.' Tor sighed and let it pass; he was in no mood to argue. The other Thanes were though.

Thane Cruel-Sea challenged him. 'What about human rights?'

'They aren't human,' he said with a laugh.

Jarl Stormcloak watched them all with his piercing eyes, his face a mask. The conversation fell into bickering and he spoke up again. 'My Thanes; I should mention that I have already appointed a representative.' That wasn't received well.

'I want a vote! My Jarl,' Thane Seastride bellowed before quickly adding the title at the end.

The Jarl showed no expression, but Tor couldn't help but think he looked cornered. 'This is the will of the council?' The other Thanes agreed. Tor nodded his own assent; it was only fair they had a say in who was appointed to the Jarl's Government.

'Those in favour of a representative?' Stormcloak asked.

None of the Thanes, save Cruel-Sea put up his hand. Bosworth looked about to, but he quickly backed down when he saw that he was vastly outnumbered.

'Fine,' Jarl Stormcloak said wearily. With a start, Tor realised that the Jarl was actually looking quite tired. He didn't see him often, only about every six months, but now that he was looking properly, Tor noticed that he was looking much weaker than he had before. He was slightly slumped in his seat, and his face was drawn. Tor reckoned the rasp in his voice was connected with this as well.

'If that's all then, this council is adjourned,' Jarl Stormcloak finished. 'You will receive ravens with the dates for the next one. If you wish to petition I will be available in two hours. In a few days I will ride for Whiterun.' He looked around to ensure all the Thanes were listening to him properly. 'In my absence, Lady Stormcloak and my youngest son, Ulfgar Stormcloak, will rule Eastmarch. On his return from Fort Amol, my eldest will rule as Thegn Regent. I will expect him to be given the same courtesy you would give a Jarl. Dismissed.'

They stood and waited as Jarl Jon Stormcloak swept from the room, his Housecarl behind him. The other Thanes started leaving, discussing the council as they made for the door. Most of the talk was about the High King, but who could blame them. Even Tor was somewhat interested in the Royal politics. After all, there had been very little communication between any of the Holds since the Silver-Blood Affair, and it was good to see a possibility of the land uniting again.

Thane Tor walked from the room, collecting his weapons on the way out and then meeting up with his Housecarl, Aberon. They made their way through the city, into the Avenue of Valour, the home of the richest, most famous, and most powerful Nords in Windhelm. Tor weaved his way through the streets until he came to the home he had been looking for; Thane Torsten Cruel-Sea's.

Most Thanes had houses in the city, as well as a central longhouse at their seat of power. Tor's own was Jarl's Head, an ancient place once used for the moots to decide the High King. _But that_, he reflected sadly, _is a thing of the past now…_

Tor made his way into the house. It was clean and large but simple. At the entrance waited his firstborn, Carl Erik Blackmoore, who greeted him on his arrival. Only the Thanes were allowed in the council meetings, but Tor liked having Erik along, as he was a source of insightful and clever intuition; something Tor found immensely useful when dealing with the other Thanes.

Erik was tall, with long limbs. While not quite as tall as the Stormcloaks, he was coming close, only a few inches below. His curly brown hair was cut fairly short, and he had brownish-green eyes, like Tor himself. Erik was undoubtedly his father's son in almost every respect.

'What did you talk about?' he asked, his eyes curious.

'This and that. The real news was that of the High King.'

'Is he dead?'

Tor smiled wryly. He always found it easier to open up around his family. 'Not yet. He's called Jarl Stormcloak to court.'

'What's he going to do?' Erik sounded anxious, Tor noted. But then he grew up in the Dragonborn generation. Most of the boys Erik's age, about eighteen-ish, hero-worshiped Jon Stormcloak. It annoyed Tor to no end.

'He's going of course. What else would he do?'

'Rebel, I suppose,' Erik said, biting his lip.

Tor refocused their thoughts on the reason for their visit. 'Is Torsten here yet?'

'No, he's probably coming in after you.'

Erik was right. No sooner had he said that, Thane Torsten Cruel-Sea burst in from the snow, followed by his Housecarl.

'Thane Blackmoore. You put on a cold exterior in court,' he said by way of greeting.

Tor nodded, his expression still fairly icy. 'Are we going to talk now?'

'Yes, yes,' Torsten said, taking off his cloak. 'Do you want a drink?'

Tor shook his head, but Erik asked for wine. Cruel-Sea called over his steward and ordered drinks for them, before turning to Tor. 'You can come up to my study.' He looked briefly at Erik. 'Your boy will come up as well?'

Tor nodded and they followed the other Thane upstairs, over the polished boards, and into a spacious study with a good view over the avenue.

Torsten took a seat behind his desk while Tor and Erik took seats in front of it. It was the regular set-up. The two Thanes had been doing this for years, even in the time of Jon's father, Ulfric Stormcloak. That said, they found more to talk about under Jon's rule, bar when the civil war raged over the land. Torsten was an insightful man, if somewhat uninterested in things that didn't affect him. He was about the only other noble in the hold Tor was close with.

Tor broke the silence. 'What did you think?'

'Of what? There was some important news this time.'

'The Thalmor and Jarl Stormcloak's reaction to being called to court.'

Torsten leaned forward, accepting his drink as it came, and then speaking with his elbows on the desk. 'You might as well ask me to make you king.' Seeing Tor's expression he sobered up. 'The Thalmor are not my concern. I know my power and its own limits. That is a question for the King to worry about. As for the Jarl, he seemed beaten. Like he already knew what he was going to do.'

Tor was pleased to have his suspicion confirmed. 'Were you expecting anything less?'

Torsten shook his head. 'This is also a question just for him, not us.'

'I think that Stormcloak will take this as an opportunity,' Erik said suddenly.

The other Thane took a drink from his goblet, focusing with a little surprise on the young Carl. 'What do you mean?'

'There has been little communication in nearly three years. The Thalmor grow ever restless.' Tor sat back, watching his son approvingly. 'He will go there to get information and assess the other Jarls.'

'Perhaps,' agreed Torsten. 'I would be interested to find out what the meeting is really about. I mean, why now, after all these years?'

Tor spoke up, carefully. 'It would have to be important. To call all the Jarl's together, without reason, would be foolish. His Grace is in a dangerous position now. I suspect the news he has will affect Skyrim in more ways than we could imagine.'

'And that, Tor, is what I'm worried about.'

Blackmoore nodded, his own mind racing through possibilities, each more dreadful than the last. In the back of his mind, he could tell the clouds of war were descending.

**Okay, mage next. (I've saved it, but he should be good.) Please review. After mage-man it will be another Ulster chapter and a new POV in a double POV chapter. Clavius Vile will feature. **


	12. The Beginning of Magic

**It's a been long time in the coming, but here is the only mage I will ever write, I think. I was a little unsure about writing magic but when I decided I would, I gave it its own system of laws etc. Also, don't expect mages to be too powerful. You'll see how and why in Assur's next chapter.**

**The thanks: To DragonXander, thanks for the review. I'm really pleased you liked Tor and the 'Dragonborn Era' thing. I thought it was appropriate, and it hints at Jon's prestige. Anyway, thanks. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Cool, I'm really glad you liked the politics and opinions. That's great! Also, I think its two l's. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased you liked Tor and saw him as a grey character (again, really good) and don't worry about the Ulfric age thing. That said, the Divine Gods are actually immortal, else they wouldn't be Gods. Just saying! (This argument is going to last a long time.) To Lisana, thanks for the Story Favourite! To Guest, thanks for the review! Okay, I'll make Barbas unique, but if you want to suggest something, good ahead. I'd love to hear your ideas on what he should look like. Thanks guys. I really appreciate it! **

**Okay, then. Give me ideas about Barbas' appearance! Post a review with your ideas on it and I'll choose some to integrate and create him with and those guys I choose (it may be everyone) I'll just mention in my notes here at the top. Only one condition; he's supposed to be seen in public so no flaming fur please. Golden, red or black eyes, ect or shots of gold in his fur is great, but not too extreme. Thanks, guys. Tell me a dog type too! **

**Also, I'm splitting this story into three parts. They're all in this 'story' file thing but with each one some time will pass which allows me to do some things and ignore other things! For those who are wondering, this story will take place over four years. **

**Assur Winter**

The fire was small. It lit his palm in a small ball of writhing light, warming the room. By even as it did, he felt himself becoming colder. It was something he still hadn't worked out yet. Every time he conjured a flame, only ever very small, he began to feel cold, like the spell was drawing the heat from his own body. It frustrated him to no end, as there seemed to be no way of countering the effect.

Footsteps sounded outside his room and Assur Winter cut of the flow of energy, pulling the furs back over him. A modicum of heat returned to him, but he still shivered with the cold. Assur listened intently, trying to determine the source of the noise, before sitting up again, his heart racing. It didn't pay to use magic in Winterhold. His father, Jarl Korir, was vehemently opposed to it as were most of the people. Most nights Assur dreamed of running away to the College of Winterhold.  
The College was a huge fortress like structure located just outside town, suspended on a huge pillar of rock that rose out of the sea which bordered Winterhold's northern borders. It was a haven for magic users, acting as a home and school. Many of the greatest scholars of Skyrim, and even Tamriel, had come from the College. Nonetheless, it was shunned; and hated by Allur's father especially. No one talked about it, and no one went near it.  
It hadn't always been like this though. Once, the college was a place of great pride in Winterhold. Magic had always been strong in the town. It had been a deeply ingrained part of the culture, but ever since the Great Collapse everything had changed.

The Great Collapse had occurred some ninety years ago. Back then Winterhold had been a massive city, rivalling the power of Windhelm and Solitude. It wasn't to last though; the edge of the mountain had collapsed, taking half the city with it. Then, a great fire had ravaged what remained, destroying most of the city. Two years later the walls surrounding the town had been removed and Winterhold had sunk into penury. Allur's father, the Jarl of Winterhold, had been an optimistic man when he had ascended, but years of being told about how much better things were before the collapse made him bitter. He took it out on people, including Assur, who saw him the most. By now the young Winter had learnt to disregard what his father said, mostly, but it still made him sick with fear everytime he saw a mage burned outside the longhouse. Assur knew that if Father found out about his powers, he would be killed.

Most of Winterhold blamed the College for the collapse, as people did for most of the bad things that happened to them. Magic was always the enemy in Skyrim.

Assur pulled his mind away from these depressing thoughts, and back to the problem at hand. Why was his fire making him colder? He sat up and clicked his fingers. The tiny flame burst to light on his fingertips, and he studied it intensely. It was strange; he didn't feel the heat of his own magic, but he felt every other flame. It was just another mystery which Assur didn't understand.

He was starting to shiver again. Assur cut off the flow of energy to the magic and sunk back into bed. So far, he could only create fire. Occasionally, Assur had managed to get his hands on a spell book at the local trader, they had an understanding, but that was very rare. The last time he'd seen one was only a week ago, but before that Assur hadn't seen one in two years. Naturally, they were exceptionally rare, but Birna always made sure to keep any books she was given or brought back, for Assur after discovering his interest in them. She did know about his powers, but Winter was generally studious so she attributed it to his studies.

Normally he stayed up all night trying to work out magic, or understand a point brought up in a book he was reading, but creating the flame had left him exhausted and shivering, so Assur resigned himself to not finding out about the mysteries of flame and went to sleep.

**Assur Winter woke as dawn **broke. He struggled out of bed and pulled on a white shirt with a grey hose and tough fur lined boots. He pulled on a belt with silver buckles, Winterhold's wealth had improved in the last few years, before heading out of his room and into the large, wraparound balcony that made up the top floor of the Jarl's longhouse.

Assur quickly made his way down the steps and into the main hall of the longhouse. It was a long room, with several rooms heading off to the sides. It was also made entirely of timber with white carpets on the floor, and silver candlesticks. It was looking better than it had ten years ago. Ever since Balgruuf Wind-Shifter had become King he had donated generous sums of money into improving the hold capital of Winterhold and the villages that belonged to it's Thanes. In turn, mining had begun, and the people of Winterhold had started to make use of the huge deposits of silver and iron below the icy terrain of the hold itself. The result was that the burnt out buildings left from the Great Fire had been knocked down or repaired and people had started coming here to live. The King's creation of a great road to link all of Skyrim had included Winterhold, and trade was increasing with every year. Even so, the town was not a city, and its people were still quite poor. Only the Jarl lived in any luxury; his Thanes were little better than peasants. But something was happening, and that was what mattered really. Hope was a powerful incentive.

Assur looked out at the Jarl's throne, but it was empty. Father was probably still passed out drunk again. He moved past it, making for the dining room. Again, it was empty. Assur shrugged; he had never enjoyed the half heartened conversations with his father and instead he fetched a heavy fur cloak, white with a light trim, from his room and burst out into the snowy air. His auburn air ruffled in the wind as he set out across town, making for The Frozen Hearth, the town's inn. It didn't take long to cross through the white streets but by the time Assur closed the door behind him, he was freezing. It was always snowing in Winterhold, and as such the people were hardier than most Nords, but even so, it _was_ a cold day.

'Thegn Assur. It's good to see you, lord.' It was Dagur, the innkeeper.

Assur nodded at him before making his way up. 'Talos above, it's cold!'

'That's the winter coming for you.'

'It's spring though,' Assur said, sitting on a stool. The inn was otherwise empty or quiet as people woke up slowly.

'Doesn't make it warm,' Dagur said.

'No, no it doesn't,' he reflected, quietly.

Dagur noticed his sombre mood. 'Problem, lord?'

Assur grey eyes flicked up. 'No, no problem.'

The other Nord didn't believe him but at that moment Birna, the owner of Birna's Oddments, the only trader in town, walked in. She was a young women with blond hair and pale milky skin. Her blue eyes were alert and light, and she had a nicely shaped face. Birna smiled at the nineteen year old Assur. She was only a few years older than him. Her family had died last winter when the famine had hit but Assur had offered her shelter, saving her life. This, and her understanding of his fascination of knowledge, had made them close friends. Even so, the way she looked at him made Assur frequently uncomfortable, and he nodded before turning away. She came up anyway.

'Thegn Assur. A pleasure.' She looked at him hopefully. _A Jarl's son is still a Jarl's son, no matter where he comes from, _he thought.

He stood. 'It's my honour, of course.'

Birna's hopeful look was replaced with a sweet smile, before turning to Dagur. She put on a face. 'I'm just out of wood. Could I borrow some?'

Dagur looked pained. 'I've only got enough for me here. You know I'd give you some if I could.'

She held up her hands. 'I understand. No worries.' She looked at Assur. 'It's a pleasure, Thegn.'

Assur, who had been following the conversation carefully, suddenly snapped to life. 'No, we have wood. You can use some if you want,' Assur offered.

'No, I couldn't-'

'It's no trouble.'

'I would appreciate it, Thegn.'

Assur nodded and waved at Dagur before heading out with Birna following him. She looked anxious, and as they passed the guards at the door of the longhouse she glanced wearily at their leather armour, Winterhold couldn't afford chainmail, with their stark white surcoats and iron weapons. Assur had never felt any fear passing them, but then it wasn't exactly the same thing for him.

They entered the longhouse, and came face to face with Assur's father; Jarl Korir Winter of Winterhold. He was a man of average height, with a sunken face, long auburn hair, now greying, and bloodshot grey eyes. His walk was slightly unsteady and his once pale complexion slightly red. _That's the alcohol_, Assur thought wearily.

'Father,' Assur acknowledged.

He focused on his son slowly. 'Assur.' He looked past him. 'Who's this?'

The younger Winter glanced back at his companion. 'This is Birna. She owns the trader.'

'Right, of course.'

Birna was looking terrified and she quickly curtsied. 'My Jarl.'

Korir had already moved off, ignoring both of them as he poured himself a mug of beer. Assur quickly led Birna through the longhouse, into the room where they kept the wood.

'Take a sack,' he said, indicating a pile in the corner. 'And let's go.' They loaded it up quickly before rushing from the longhouse, avoiding Assur's father carefully. They crossed the street to Birna's shop, which she opened clumsily, and went in.

Assur dropped the sack in a corner while Birna went to the fireplace with a few small logs to light a fire. They didn't talk about the Jarl. Winter stepped up as she struggled to light a fire with her tinder. _It's hopeless_, Winter recognised. _She will never light it; the wood is too damp._ In a flash, Assur remembered the small fire he had created earlier and he stepped forward.

'Let me try.' Birna smiled again and let him take her place. Assur knelt closely over it, wondering if he could create the flame again. It hadn't been too hard last night. He focused on his fingers, drawing in breath. He imagined a heat flowing up his body, tingling his senses before exploding on his finger. He felt the rush of energy and moved closer, pretending to use the tinder, waiting for the fire to pop into existence on his fingertip. It didn't.

Assur drew back puzzled as a man walked into the store. _It worked last night, why not now? _As he tried to figure out why it hadn't worked he heard a shout behind him. Assur stood to see Ranmir, the town drunk, standing over Birna. He looked angry.

Winter sighed, feeling annoyed. Ranmir was a waste of space, but mostly harmless.

'What are you doing?' he asked, wearily. It was turning out to be a trying day.

Ranmir looked round with the look Father often gave Assur; he hadn't even noticed him. 'Who are you?'

'Assur Winter. Just get away from her. You're drunk again.'

The other Nord licked his lips. 'Dagur won't serve me anymore.'

'That's not my problem.'

'Everyone's problems are the Jarls.'

'I'm not the Jarl.'

'Then fuck off.'

Assur was stung. Ranmir's moods were changeable, but he didn't want Birna to get hurt so he touched the other Nord on the shoulder. 'Just leave, and we won't say anything.'

Ranmir took one look over at Assur's clothes before licking his lips again. 'That cloak will fetch a pretty penny.'

'Where? Winterhold's the only town for miles-'

Suddenly Ranmir's fist lashed out and struck Assur across the face. He fell, his head pounding. _Did he just hit me? _He tried to get up but Ranmir slammed his foot into Assur's stomach driving out his wind. The heir groaned; he had never been in a fight. He didn't know it hurt so much.

Before he could get up Ranmir grabbed him, and threw Winter over the counter. Assur heard Birna's scream as he fell, the shelves breaking and objects raining down on him. Something hit him on the head and he cried out. Assur struggled to his feet, feeling sick. His stomach hurt, and his vision was blurry. But his anger was overpowering his fear. With a cry he vaulted over the counter, slamming into Ranmir. They fell back as Birna let out another scream. Assur drew back his fist, ready to hit the drunk, but Ranmir kicked him in the stomach and he fell back before an uppercut sent a flash of blinding white through his vision. Winter staggered against the counter, breathing heavily. Ranmir was approaching again. Fear coursed through Assur and he held out his hand to stop the other Nord in a panic. And then it happened.

A huge flame burst from his fingertips, slamming into Ranmir. The drunk screamed as the flames engulfed him, melting his flesh. Assur looked up in amazement as searing cold shot through his body. He fell with a cry, shivering weakly as the fire began to spread.

His vision was black and dazed. He couldn't see. Assur felt a cold fear, even colder than he felt, rush through him. He began to panic as his nerves were being burned by a freezing cold. He looked at his hand; one of his fingers was numb with frostbite and black. He whimpered and looked up as Birna struggled over him.

'Run, Assur! Run, the guards are coming.'

'But I'm the Jarl's son,' he said weakly, uncomprehendingly. His mind was in turmoil.

'Run!' she screamed.

Assur struggled to his feet as a lurching sickness shot up through his body. He felt like he was going to die. His body was shaking with an intense, searing coldness. It rocketed through his body as fear and panic consumed his mind.

Birna's voice tried to penetrate the thick fog that covered his senses. 'They're kill you! You have to run.'

She pulled him up as the heat of the fire started warming his body. Assur looked around wildly, his vision sinking back to normal. Birna was next to him, surrounded by a burning shop.

'Run now. Make for the College!'

Assur's mind locked down finally and everything came into focus. 'Yes,' he said, his voice shaky.

With a sickening lurch he staggered from the shop as smoke billowed out after them. He coughed violently before looking around. The College of Winterhold was just up the main street. It wasn't far.

Voices slammed into his mind. Guards voices. He ran, slowly, but faster as he picked up speed. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he pounded up the street. No one thought stayed in his mind as adrenaline pumped him on faster. Suddenly guards appeared on the street, their weapons drawn. He turned, rocketing down the space between two houses. In a flash a guard appeared in front of him. The Nord grabbed Assur and swung him down, but with a cry he threw a wild punch at the guard. It didn't connect but something else did. The Nord was thrown against one of the walls of a house like a ragdoll. With a sickening crunch he fell and Assur launched himself out of the gap and sprinted for the bridge that led up to the College, ignoring what had just happened. It was only a hundred metres but he felt tired, like a sudden wave of energy had been taken from him. His breath came out in rasps but in a flash of movement he was there and he collapsed on the floor in front of a tall High Elf. She regarded him was a disdainful expression, before looking up again at the chaos that was engulfing Winterhold. Several guards came for Assur, who was still on the ground, but she stepped forward. They halted and their leader moved forward uneasily, looking around at his fellows before putting on a determined face.

'Give us the Jarl's son, Mage. We think he has something to do with the fire.'

She looked over them coolly before speaking. 'The Jarl's son has come here to study, haven't you?' She looked down at Assur, who nodded weakly. 'Go now.'

With that she pulled up Assur and half carried, half dragged him up the bridge. The guard captain made no further move, instead he just stood there looking around sheepishly, cowed by the Mage's attitude.

Assur's vision was getting blacker. His energy felt like it had been sucked from him, and one of his fingers was on fire with a searing coldness. Even as he struggled to regain consciousness, his mind succumbed to the waiting blackness and he knew n more.

**Well, I hope that was okay. Assur has a big future ahead of him, which is good I guess. In the next chapters, I'll explore magic a bit more and you'll see Assur in comparison to the other apprentices!**


	13. A Daedra and his Dog

**Sorry for the wait guys! I've been busy. The first POV is the second to last, but she will have very infrequent ones, just so you know. The second is the return of Ulster, Vile and their friend Barbas. I know you guys have been waiting for him for AGES, so there you go. Don't worry, as I start killing off POV's, other ones will get more chapters. **

**The thanks to you guys without accounts; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the great reviews! Assur will become much greyer, but not really because of himself. It's weird. Birna is only a little older in game I think, but it doesn't matter. Daedra Princes are just powerful Daedra, which are essentially another race. The Divines are Gods; actually living gods who create thunderstorms and cannot be killed. Talos is not top God, Akatosh is. Nords just revere him. Talos was made a God because he was so damn cool and they had to because he united an entire world. Also your scene was really good. Barbas was a little out of character, but I liked your descriptions. It was a great description, and I'm definitely going to use bits of it. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! The story will take place over four years, but (hopefully not) I may write it over four years (almost certainly not). I'm really glad you liked the magic system. You'll find out just how powerful (yes, powerful) Assur really is compared to other magic users (like I said, I had to reign it in). There will be other solution though, but you'll see. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! You're kind of right, magic does take stuff for everything you use. Some effects are not as important, but others are. That's a great idea for electrical magic, but I want it to be among the weakest of the forces, but if you don't mind I'll implement a little of that in, but not too much otherwise it would be the most dangerous by far. Thanks for the suggestion for Barbas. To rockretard, thanks for the Story Favourite and Follower for all my Trilogy. **

**I hope you like both Selina and Ulster (or should I just say Clavicus Vile?) I've changed the Skyrim style for the King to 'His Majesty' to separate the two cultures (Nord and High Elf) further. That, and it's the modern English style. Also I made up the stuff about the elven language. Please don't expect me to make it up all the time. **

**A big thanks to Blade Agent99, DragonXander and Sirryu for the ideas on Barbas! **

**Selina Black**

**Selina Black entered the church**. It was cold, so cold she rubbed her hands together, pulling her cloak tighter around her body. Her black hair fell loosely to her shoulders, and she shivered. Selina had been dreading this moment. Seeing Forgn was one thing, but the Listener was another.  
She had heard many tales about him, and what he did. The older members said that he rarely showed himself, and that he had acted as the Listener for as long as anyone could remember. There were darker tales of course, but she ignored those, else her fear would overwhelm her feeble courage.  
Selina spotted a dark figure near the end, sitting by the altar. She presumed that this was the Listener so she quickly made her way up to him, her footsteps ringing off the vaulted ceiling. It was a beautiful cathedral, she observed. The stonework was delicate, and it depicted scenes showing creatures of the night hunting their prey. Vampires and Werewolves. It wasn't natural. She hated their kind, that and magic. It was a way of cheating life. Selina was a firm believer of earning what she had, in whatever way she could.  
By the time Selina had finally reached the altar, she was freezing. She rubbed her hands together in a vain attempt to generate heat, but a voice broke through the cold air. It was surprisingly ordinary, but with a rich Colovian accent and icy touch.  
'Cold?'  
Selina's arms snapped to her sides. 'No, Listener.'  
The voice laughed. It was male. 'Fine, then please remain as you are.'  
She stayed silent.  
The man continued. 'Do you know why I summoned you?'  
'You require my services.'  
'Yes, very good.' He spoke in a patronising manner, which irritated Selina, but she couldn't say anything, or else she would face severe punishment. 'You see-' The Listener stopped. 'You think I am patronising,' he guessed. Selina felt an icy grip crawl down her spine while he considered the statement. 'I suppose I am.'  
Selina was shocked; (_how could he have known that?_) and scared of giving off a bad impression, so she quickly stuttered out an excuse.  
'No, Listener.'  
'Don't lie, Selina. Not to me.' His voice remained calm throughout the whole exchange.  
'I may have thought-'  
'Of course you did,' he said, cutting her off. 'There is nothing wrong with emotion, except the wrong kind.'  
The Listener unnerved her to the extent that she didn't even feel the same. Around him was an aura of fear, but it was a subtle feeling. It crept up on her unnoticed and then subdued all resistance. She couldn't fight it, nor could she really answer his question, so she stayed silent.  
'You are shy, my dear. I was told you were quite... fiery.'  
Selina seethed with anger, but a mixture of his aura, and rank, stopped her from retaliating.  
'You're probably wondering why you are here, no?' He didn't wait for her to answer. 'I have a very important job, suitable for only you.'  
Selina managed a reply. 'I can do it.'  
He laughed a high, cold laugh. 'I wouldn't have wasted my time if I hadn't known that you could do it.'  
'War with the Thalmor is coming,' he started. 'No matter what anyone says. They will try and deny it, but they can't really.'  
'What do you mean?'  
He ignored her. 'The Empire will put up a good fight, but they will lose. Deep down, everyone already knows that the Nords will crucial to this fight; them, and a united Tamriel.' He leaned forward, his voice urgent. 'And they will win if we allow them too. King Balgruuf and Jarl Stormcloak have the ability to lead the Nords to victory!'  
'Why do we care? The Thalmor destroyed our last sanctuary!'  
'A contract has been given.'  
Anger gave her strength. 'Then fuck them!'  
You stupid girl,' he said, showing the first sign of emotion: disdain. 'If we resist they will destroy us. The Dread Father himself demands we complete the contract.'  
'But it goes against everything we stand for!'  
'Does it? I think not.'  
He was right. Selina had no reply; after all, they killed for Sithis, nothing else. The lives she would take were mighty. Mighty enough for the Dread Father.  
'What do you want me to do?' she said, resigned to her fate.  
'Return to the sanctuary. I will get in touch.'  
And like that, her meeting was over. In an attempt to keep some dignity, she swept away quickly without bowing but he caught her as she left.  
'I will be watching you, Selina Black.'  
The sentence sent shivers down her spine.

**Carl Ulster Stormcloak **

**Clavicus was leading the way. **At his side was a dog, which Ulster now knew to be his stupid pet, Barbas. It was a shock the first time he spoke, but he had gotten over it quickly enough. Ten years or so with a Daedric Lord certainly makes you more willing to accept things you might not have before.

It had been a wasted ten years. Clavicus had dropped in from time to time, taking Ulster to contacts, and giving him advice. In reality they were getting nowhere but Stormcloak didn't have anywhere else to go so he had waited, patiently, as Clavicus told him they were getting closer to their goal. Today, apparently, would finally be it.

Ulster trudged behind him, staring at the Daedric Prince darkly. He had grown to resent being under Clavicus' control. He hated having to rely on another man, but here he was, now forty-four and still obedient to the scumbag in front of him.

'Not much further now, Ulster,' Vile promised.

'_Yeah, and that's what he said before we entered the city,_' Barbas confided to Ulster. Stormcloak hated talking to a dog.

The dog in question resembled a German Shepherd, but with thicker black fur. Blood red streaks run through his fur. In his true form, Ulster knew that they set alight. His deep red eyes scanned the city with an intelligent air. He had golden pupils and his voice had a distinctly gritty, high sound to it.

The city they were in was Alinor, the capital of the old province of Summerset Isles. Nowadays the whole country was called Alinor, after the Elves beloved city. It wasn't hard to see why it was so revered. The capital was huge, and the buildings were all impossibly tall and slim, too graceful to hold people, yet managing to raise gardens and signs, and shops. The Elves liked everything high up, and that was where most everything was. The High Elves weren't into nature in the way their Wood Elf cousins were, but the natural was a prominent theme in Alinor. That, and wealth. Every building was made of dazzling silver and gold. The riches here were mind blowing; when Ulster first saw it he had been speechless. But it wasn't thrown around; everything was elegant and well placed. There was no poor district, merely a 'richer' district. The street was quiet, but nicely packed; as if the Elves were coordinating everything that moved in their precious capital. There were no walls surrounding the city; in their arrogance they never assumed anyone would get near it. So far, no one had.

Ulster's boots clicked off the silver pathway as he looked around in wonder, his eyes eager to take in everything. The city had addictive effect, yet the High Elves in the street didn't even seem to notice it. Ulster wanted to shake them and show them how amazing the city was, but he quickly suppressed these thoughts; _Alinor has bloody magic woven into its very being_, he reflected resentfully.

Vile led the small party up the street, towards the royal palace where the High King resided. The elves still had one, despite the Thalmor influence. The Aldmeri Dominion was the empire itself, ruled by a government known as 'The Thalmor' which in turn was headed by the High King of Alinor. It was a stronger system than it seemed; the ruling class worked in harmony to further their own goals. That was good for Ulster. But in Alinor the more skilled the High Elf was in magic, the higher their social standing. With the exception of a few powerful noble families, the hierarchy shifted constantly. _That_ was the one weakness of their supreme government.

As they moved further into the city Ulster noticed they were heading in the direction of the Imperial Palace, known as 'Les Alderi Trunnove.' It translated to 'The Powerful One' in the Elven language, something Ulster has learnt in his time here.

The decision to head up to the palace surprised Ulster, and he became wary. Likely as not they would be turned away, and then it was back to square one. Stormcloak wasn't sure if he could take another false hope, not after all he had been through.

As they neared the crystal palace, glowing with the light of a thousand suns, Ulster started imagining the worst. It was the best thing, he had realised, to assume that you would fail. That way, you wouldn't feel the failure as badly. And this escapade _was_ doomed to failure. He could feel it in his gut.

Clavicus Vile made straight for the main gate, guarded as it was by twenty High Elves, armoured all in gold. He strode forward with a confident air, growing as he did so, his skin taking on the golden hue of the High Elves, until he was just below seven foot, the average height for one of their race. As always, his power stunned Ulster, who fell back as he looked on in wonder. The Elves didn't appear to notice, which surprised Stormcloak, but he didn't worry about it right now.

'I have an audience with His Grace,' Vile said in the thick drawl of the High Elves, using the traditional term for an Elven King. In Skyrim, it was 'His Majesty' but Ulster didn't dwell on it; memories of home were always a bad thing.

The Captain of the Guards, presumably, looked him over and inclined his head. 'Yes, of course, Lord Celedaen. Would you like an escort?'

'I can manage,' Vile replied icily, mimicking the High Elf attitude.

The group swept past them. With a shock Ulster noticed that Barbas had transformed into a gold armoured guard. With a surge of icy fear Ulster noticed that he too had taken on the appearance of a High Elf. His regular anger boiled over and once they had passed the gates and massive courtyard, and entered into the palace itself he yanked back the Daedric Prince, his expression black.

'What have you done to me?'

Vile sighed, ignoring his rage. 'You think they would ever allow a Nord into their most sacred city?'

'You mean I've been like this for hours!' he hissed.

Vile smiled and slapped his cheek. 'You really must be more observant, Ulster. It'll be the death of you.' He turned away, but almost as an afterthought looked back at Stormcloak, his voice unmoving. 'Don't ever do that again.'

Ulster tried to wipe the fear off his face, but he didn't succeed and Vile grinned. That made him hate the Daedra even more.

'_For what's its worth, I hate being a High Elf too,' _Barbas told him. _'But let's just say that Vile isn't… well, questionable?' _Ulster ignored him and swept past, following Clavicus. Barbas sighed. _'No one listens to a dog.' _

'Then stop being one,' Ulster told it through gritted teeth.

'_Not an animal guy, right? I should have guessed; bad guys never are.' _

Ulster couldn't ignore that, and he turned to the stupid dog-elf thing as he continued walking. 'I'm not the bad guy! Jon East is!'

'_What's East? I thought his name was Stormcloak. Wait, have I mistaken this whole thing all these years.' _

'East is a bastard name, you stupid pup! He's a bastard.'

Barbas pointed at Ulster in a way that suggested he was making something clear. _'But he also happens to be Jarl of Windhelm, and Dragonborn. Did you forget that part?' _

Ulster took a deep breath to calm himself and continued walking. He hated this High Elf body, he hated the dog, and he hated his life. _Why are the Gods so unfaithful to me? _

Vile was waiting for them by a huge golden door, inscribed with various elven runes. It glowed gently. 'Behind this door is the High King of the Dominion. We need to see him if we want to get back your Jarldom.'

Suddenly, Ulster became anxious, and angry. 'Why are we seeing this Elven King?'

'Because he needs men on the inside of Skyrim for the upcoming war-'

Ulster went cold, and his mind started racing. 'A war?'

Vile ignored him. 'Keep your mouth shut. I'll do the talking.'

With that he knocked on the door. It opened wordlessly and he strode in, up a gold strip that led up to the throne. Black marble covered all else and golden lights hovered along the walls. Up ahead was the King, all alone, and the Elven Throne, as light and graceful as anything here. It glimmered with a thousand lights.

The Elven King was a tall Elf, even for them, with almost shimmering gold skin, long platinum hair and dark, dark eyes. They surveyed the room restlessly, yet his expression was bored. He wore deep golden robes, with black trim, the colours of the Dominion. Surrounded by these textures, Ulster couldn't shake off where he was.

Vile didn't bow, instead he stood below the throne, and looked up at the King with a knowing smile. At first the Elf looked outraged, but slowly he replaced that expression with a look of disdain. Finally he spoke.

'Shall I call the guards?'

'No need.' Vile stepped forward, transforming back to himself as he did so, fire wrapping around him. Barbas sprung to his side, in dog form and with a growl of pain Ulster was thrown forward, the fire burning the façade from his body, until he landed at Vile's feet. 'Daedric Prince Clavicus Vile, of Power and Wishes, at your service.' He still didn't bow.

The King's eyes were lit by a mixture of greed and reverence. 'Lord Vile.' He inclined his head ever so slightly.

Ulster, who was waiting to be taken away, was dumbfounded by the reaction before he remembered how highly the Daedric Princes were acclaimed in Elven culture; they formed a section of the Pantheon, representing the Divines darker qualities. To the King, Vile was a god, not just a powerful Daedra. It was only the elven pride that kept the King on his feet.

'The same,' Vile replied. 'I come with an offer; one I think even you won't be able to refuse.'

The King leaned back, his dark eyes interested. He didn't seem particularly surprised to have a 'god' in his throne room. 'What is it?'

'Have you looked out of a window lately?' Ulster glanced around. There were no windows. 'Obviously not,' Vile continued. 'Have you heard the talk of the city then?'

The Elf was still a King, and they already saw themselves as gods anyway. He became impatient. 'Get to it.'

Vile looked put out. 'If you don't need my help…' He turned away but the King called out immediately.

'Wait. What is it?'

The Daedra smiled a satisfied smile at having regained control of the meeting. 'A rebellion, in dear, sweet Alinor itself.'

The King scoffed. 'That's preposterous.'

'So is your incredible arrogance!' Vile snapped. 'Have you not seen the signs?' The King took on a sullen look, not suiting to his position. Ulster got the impression that the elf was letting a lot of things slide with Vile. The dark fury in his eyes suggested something else for anyone who questioned him.

'Well, I have. Not every elf loves your Dominion, and they have waited patiently for years, but now their time has come. They will do it before you announce war on Cyrodiil,'-Ulster felt a stab of unease at that.—'Otherwise the country will become too patriotic, like they always do, to mount a proper uprising.'

'Why can't I just announce war now?'

'And ruin all your plans?' Vile smiled again. 'No, you don't want to do that. And now, onto my offer.' The King let him continue sullenly. 'I can put down this rebellion; or rather, Ulster can.'

Stormcloak was shocked. He looked at Vile in disbelief, but the Daedra's conspicuous head gestures were obvious enough. The King turned to him.

'A Nord,' he said distastefully, annoyed to be talking to someone so far below him. 'What's your name?'

'Ulster Stormcloak, true Jarl of Windhelm.'

The King rolled his eyes. 'Le me guess; you want back your, what was it; "Jarl-dom"?' He pronounced it strangely and Ulster got angrier. Vile stepped in.

'You always need good spies during a war. I've brought you one. Let him prove himself with this task.'

Silence. The King thought carefully, assessing the Nord with interest before smiling and making a decision. 'You have five days.' With that he turned away, his patient with even a god spent. Vile led them out.

Ulster turned on the Daedra as they exited. 'How am I supposed to stop a rebellion!' He wanted this job, to finally succeed at something, but it would be dangerous, and impossible for a man like him.

Vile smiled that sickening smile again, and said; 'Leave that, to me.'

**I hope that was good. Please review! I've got to say Selina is another really fun character to write. **


	14. Father And Son

**IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: Has anyone seen the new Dragonborn DLC? I'm going to write a new adventure for Jon, Ralof and Odahviing when its release draws near, set before Season's End. Tell me your thoughts on that! **

**The thanks to you guys without accounts. (This time, it doesn't count you Foacir.) To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased you liked Selina! I've always been a little unsure about using the Dark Brotherhood, but this time they have a very important purpose. The Daedra thing came from some lore I think, but who knows really. Talos is the head of the Nordic Pantheon, but that is a weird branch from the main, 'proper' pantheon with Akatosh and the gang. The Imperial one, from Oblivion. Nope, the Daedra are just a race of mer with the Princes being very powerful ones, but not gods. Not at all, hence why Akatosh could kill Dagon in Oblivion, for example. The Mythic Dawn are nuts (sorry). They are fanatic in truth. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Wow, not sure if you catching it in time is good or not. Don't worry, I'll write more on her. I didn't realise that (like Alsfur it would seem), she would be so popular. Vote her in the poll if you want. Vile's motives are not entirely clear, but then he is a Daedric God. Think of it this way; the High Elves see the Princes as Gods. So, Vile could actually be hailed as a 'real' god, as opposed to the restricted worship he has now. Nope, I haven't read any of James books. That said, I do understand the whole laugh at mistakes (though normally I'm screaming at the screen to keep to the book.) Hunger Games movie did it very well though. Almost exactly the same. And Haymitch was just as badass. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Or should I call you Samer? Okay, sure. I'm really glad you liked all of it, and how the High Elf system of Government worked. That's cool. Also, I am glad the Dark Brotherhood thing paid off. Thanks everyone. **

**Okay, I didn't want to do another split chapter, but it made this one longer and Alsfur's bit wasn't all that long anyway. So, here you go. Out much quicker. **

**Please review! I forgot to mention, but we're actually getting near 200! (Kind of). **

**Carl Ralof Wood**

**Carl Ralof Wood walked down** the steps to the throne room of the Palace of Kings. They were preparing to leave for Whiterun, Jon, himself and about thirty guardsmen. Alsfur was there, with steel at his side, as was Lady Ysold. Ralof remembered when he was fighting Jon's firstborn with a wooden sword. It felt strange to have seen him grow up, as if Ralof was a Stormcloak himself. He felt blessed to have been allowed such a huge influence on his growth.  
Ralof turned his thoughts to Jon's second son, who wasn't here. Just as he thought that, the boy bounded down the steps. He was tall, too tall for his age, and well built. He had far more of Ulfric in him than Jon, or Lady Ysold, something that brought up too many unpleasant memories for Ralof. Flashes of the Civil War came back to him, but the Carl was practiced at shoving the thoughts deep down by now, so it didn't bother him anymore.  
In truth Ulfgar was more like Jon than Alsfur. He was sober and quiet, but even at ten, he had shown a great interest in the feudal system and justice. He was forever watching Jon's audiences, when Lady Ysold didn't take him away. But he had a violent temper when warranted, and he didn't have the charisma of his brother. He was the joker card of the family without a doubt.  
Ralof left Lady Ysold and Jon alone as they said their goodbyes, instead turning to grasp Alsfur's arm.  
'Stay safe, Alsfur. Keep your sword sharp and trust no one.'  
'Not even the women?' He joked.  
'Especially not the women! Look after the guards in my absence. If I see any missing, I'll string you up by your feet.'  
'Not now you won't.'  
Ralof looked up at him. _No, I won't_, he thought. Alsfur topped him by a good several inches.  
'Watch my father, Ralof.'  
The Carl looked over at him quickly. Jon bore the marks of the last attack, even now. His face was slightly drawn, but he was no longer stooped. That said, his movements were still heavy. The last attack had been a particularly bad one, yet he was insistent on making the journey now. Talos be with us.  
Ralof Wood looked around to greet Ulfgar, who was approaching. Ralof ruffled his hair. 'I'll teach you your sword when I get back.'  
'You better get back quickly or Alsfur is going to have to teach me, and he's rubbish.'  
'He's not that bad.' Ulfgar looked unsure. 'Look, I promise you I'll teach you when I return.'  
'Promise?'  
'You have my word. Now go and say goodbye.' The Housecarl pushed Ulfgar off to say goodbye, watching them fondly before he managed to snap himself out of it. _Before I know it, I'll have turned into a woman._  
He quickly strode off to find the guards that would be accompanying Jon on his journey to Whiterun. They would also stay there while the business was being taken care of, so naturally Ralof had picked some of the best men available to him. He knew that once Jon was in Whiterun, he would be isolated and alone. He needed reliable men around him. That said, the Housecarl also knew that Jon would never forgive him if he didn't post some good men around his family. In terms of Skyrim politics, he was right, as his heir was left in Windhelm and he needed to be protected, so Ralof had left the very best men with them, Nords of strong will and loyal hearts. They would be safe under their guard.  
The Nords chosen for the escort were in the courtyard outside the main building. In truth, the Palace of Kings was no palace. It was a fortress. Huge, thick walls covered a square compound. On Ralof's left was the blacksmith's quarters, the castle blacksmith, not the public one. It was built into the west wing of the palace and also there was the fletchers. On the other side was a stable and near that the heavy oak door that led to the barracks and prison. The armoury was situated in the stone site of the blacksmiths quarters so no escaped prisoners could get their hands on any weapons through chance opportunity. The walls themselves were fortified with crenellations and regularly placed barrels that would be filled with oil during war times. The entrance itself was huge, not as big as the main gate to the city itself, which was already heavily fortified, but the huge doors, made of solid silver with springy wood on the inside to absorb the most impact, which altogether made a formidable defence.

Ralof drew his attention from the walls to look around for the Jarl's escort. He found them by their horses, outfitted in the black surcoat of Windhelm with mail and metal pauldrons, along with a variety of well crafted, shining steel weapons. They were all tough men, scarred and ready to die for the Jarl. They were not lazy, or incompetent; only the best served Jon personally.

As he approached the Captain raised his hand in greeting. Ralof smiled and grabbed his arm. 'Are the men ready?'

'We're awaiting the Jarl's word.'

'Good. Send a man to raise the Stone Guard. They should be ready for Carl Alsfur's command.'

'They are, Housecarl.'

Ralof was pleasantly surprised. 'Good.' He didn't know what else to say, so instead he turned away back to the palace. When he entered, things were moving along. Alsfur was standing next to Jon, and Lady Ysold was watching them, holding Ulfgar's hand. Even Ralof felt proud as he watched Alsfur stand next to Jon, tall and fierce, with his silver blue eyes and dark hair. He noticed that Lady Ysold was crying gently, but he stopped himself from intervening; it wasn't his place. Luckily Jon wasn't oblivious. He strode back to her and took his wife in his arms. Ulfgar moved away to his brother, but Lady Ysold sent Jon off quickly, and Alsfur only gave Ulfgar a quick hug, then watched his father kiss his youngest son, before sweeping from the room.

The day was clear as they mounted their horses and Jon led the large force out of the city, which now included the men of the Stone Guard, some two hundred men-at-arms. The people of the city watched them as they left, calling out names of various carls among Jon's retinue or wishing the Jarl luck. Ralof noticed a large group of young girls stare out at Alsfur. It seemed the young women of Windhelm would be mourning his loss, and he smiled. It was weird to be unheralded, yet among giants. In a way he missed Hadvar, his oldest friend, but he was down in Cyrodiil; last he heard, he was a officer in the Legions. He hadn't seen him in years, and he suppressed a rueful smile. With grumpy Jon next to him, the chances of a good conversation looked pretty slim. But then Alsfur was next to Jon, so it wasn't impossible. Thank Talos the boy had taken on some of his mother's traits. One Jon was enough, but Ralof didn't think he could handle two. But then the Jarl turned to him, ready for conversation. _It's going to be a long trip, _he sighed, smiling.

**Carl Alsfur Stormcloak**

**They were five miles from **Windhelm when Father stopped him. Ralof looked at him questioningly, but he waved on the Carl. He turned away reluctantly, signalling the large party to do the same, dividing the Stone Guards from the escort. Father turned to Alsfur, his expression heavy. _He hasn't properly recovered from the last attack. _He felt a burst of anxiety for his father. He noticed his son's expression though, and his face turned to iron. Alsfur knew that look; he wanted no pity.

Father looked back at his guardsmen before turning to his son, steadying his horse gently. He looked awkward.

'What is it, Father?' Alsfur asked.

He looked down, as if he was struggling with something immense, before meeting his son's eyes. 'Your actions at Amol will determine what kind of Jarl you will make.' Alsfur felt a dark mood settle over them. 'I for one, think you will make a good Jarl,' he continued uncomfortably. Alsfur let him continue wordlessly. Father looked hard again at Alsfur again, studying him very carefully, his eyes piercing into him before reaching into his saddlebags. A rush of anticipation surged through Alsfur, before he caught sight of what Father was reaching for; it was Kodaav, the ancestral blade of Clan Stormcloak.

It was made of shimmering, old skyforge steel, forged in the first era. He looked on numbly in shock as the black sheath was drawn out of Father's saddlebags. _Only the Jarl ever carried Kodaav… _Jarl Jon Stormcloak turned to his son, his expression fierce, yet tender, and presented him the hilt of the sword. Alsfur took it gingerly, careful not to drop it, yet every fibre of his body shrieked his disapproval.

'I can't take this,' the younger Stormcloak managed to choke out, drawing back his hand.

'But you can, and will, Alsfur.'

The son was ready to argue but then a spasm of pain shot through his father's face, and he let out a small cry, his face bunching tightly. His hands were white as he gripped the sword. Alarm shot through Alsfur; it could be another attack!

He reached out his hand, unsure. 'Are you alright, Father?'

Anger filled his face. 'I'm fine!' he snapped and Alsfur flinched. Real pain covered Father's face as he realised what he had just done. His figure crumpled slightly and his eyes took on a pleading look. 'I'm sorry. It isn't your fault.'

'No,' his son replied tightly; 'it's the gods.'

His father let out a bark of laughter. 'The people's, more like. I hate their ignorance.'

'Then why not tell them?' he probed gently.

His Father looked at him seriously. 'Here's another life lesson, Alsfur. You are a hero while you look like one, but as soon as that's gone; what are you really expecting to find?'

'But they owe you a debt!'

'And the best ones are never paid. I have been rewarded anyway, by the gods. I have two strong sons, a beautiful wife, power, money and position. The gods have been kind, in their own way. But don't thank them, Alsfur; never thank them.'

He moved his horse closer. 'Make me proud, son,' he said quietly, before passing Kodaav to him and riding off back to the escort. The army of Stone Guards was waiting for Alsfur on the opposite hill, and he headed towards them, his mind reeling from his conversation with his father, Kodaav heavy in his hand.

**Believe it or not, I spent ages wrestling with myself to give Alsfur Kodaav. It's actually a pretty big thing, if for nothing else but Jon doesn't have it anymore. Anyway, review please! **


	15. Homecoming

**This chapter's a little slower than others, but it explains more of the rank system, and the Blackmoore family which is quite important. Took me a while to do, but it required a lot of thinking. **

**The thanks to your guys without accounts. To Nerdman3000, thanks for the Story Follower, Story Favourite, Follower and Favourite for all my stories! To Blade agent99, thanks for the review! I never thought as Ulfric as the Kingslayer. Damn it, I could have used that! Shit. Seriously, that sucks. Oh well. Don't worry about Jon. His role is moving on, but that doesn't mean he will die! Okay, fair enough, Daedra do have similar powers, but they aren't quite gods. Yes, resolved! (I hope.) As for Balgruuf's claim, anyone can become King, but I agree with what you say. HereLies said exactly the same. The Elves don't want to be gods, but the Daedra would become Gods in their pantheon. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased you liked how Ralof was written. Great to hear. As for Jon, they'll find out soon enough about Kodaav. To Samer, thanks for the review! Glad you liked Uncle Ralof, but as for Kodaav, I thought about it for a long time. Sorry, but Alsfur has it. Don't worry, Jon will remain just as badass without it. Anyway, Alsfur will need it in a couple of chapters. I haven't played AC 3 yet, thought I do want to. As for Halo, I have a PS3, so that's a no go. To Guest, on Season Unending, thanks for the review! To CCR0405, thanks for the Story Favourite and Favourite. Thanks everyone! **

**Okay, first up, I know this chapter is a little slow, but its actually quite important for linking in things. Secondly, I'm writing the first chapter for the new spin off story featuring Jon, Ralof, Odahviing and the new Dragonborn in the DLC. Third, PS3 is going to finally get the DLC! I better get it free. Also, next chapter- Assur or Alsfur? Assur for new magic stuff (he will be in the college) for Alsfur for a battle? **

**Review!**

**Thane Tor Blackmoore**

**Jarl's Head came into sight **at early morning. Thane Tor Blackmoore was anxious to get home, and it showed. His small guard were tired from a late stop and early ride. Erik didn't show it of course, he was made of the same stuff as his father, but the rest of the men did, and Tor couldn't help but feel somewhat annoyed about it. Luckily, before he could get any further from irritated, the town had come into site.

Clan Blackmoore were undoubtedly rich. They had a few farms, but the bulk of the Thane's money came from their mine. It was a large one, which produced gold, some loose iron and even some gem stones. This mix, a rarity in Skyrim, possibly all of Tamriel, and had kept the Clan going for hundreds of years. That, and fertile soil, ensured that the reality actually fitted with the reputation. Of course, they would have more, but a fifth of all the goods went to the Jarl every summer, unless you could find reason to object, such as if there was a famine, for example. Tor himself had no problem with this; the system had been around for some two thousand years now. It obviously worked. And in any case, things had been worse during the Civil War, where Ulfric Stormcloak had demanded a third of all produce. But then, again, that had been war.

Jarl's Head itself was located on a huge hill; the new mines existed some miles away, but the original was still present in the town itself. Eight hundred years ago, the Kingsmoot was held in that mine, which was now a well carved temple of sorts, after the Blackmoore's original allegiance to High King Verk II.

Verk had been High King in the First Era. The Blackmoore history said they were descended from one of the 500 Companions, the Shield Brother of Ysgramor's first son, who was killed in a ship wreck. For his outstanding service, Jeric More-Black was given land in Morthal by Ysgramor, when they had finally taken all of what was now modern day Skyrim. The name evolved over a few years to Blackmoore.

When Civil War had come some years later, between Verk Stormcloak and Derion Kingsblood, the Blackmoore of the time had supported Stormcloak. After winning, Verk had granted the clan rich land in Eastmarch, back when there were no Thanes, but lots of land. Hosting the Kingsmoot became the Blackmoore clan's responsibility; one of the most prestigious of all those held by the thanes. It hadn't helped the clan's reputation for arrogance, but they served the position faithfully. That was over now though. In addition, the Blackmoore's had taken on the motto; 'The King's Man.' Of course, when the crown passed to Solitude, it changed to 'The Jarl's Man.'

The Stormcloaks always said 'Blood is Powerful' and it was. Tor was proud of his Nedic blood, but he never paraded it around as other Thane's thought. That was the Stormcloak's job. The mine where the moots were once held was now called, quite vulgarly, 'The Jarl's Hole.'

Jarl's Head itself was a large town, with a strong wooden wall surrounding it. It was quite modest, as the previous Thanes had never bothered to make it impressive; instead it was functional with tough, large houses, and a clear planned layout. The Blackmoore's had always been mechanical, and it showed in the wide, planned streets, the scorpions lining the wall, and the stone buttresses braced at key sections in the wall to withstand attack. The main gate was built in a similar way. The gate was layered with wood and heavy fur, to take impact shock, with a layer of metal in the middle. It was as strong as any gate in Falkreath or Helgen.

As they approached the town, Nikulas 'Nik' Blackmoore, Tor's younger son, came riding up. He had the typical Blackmoore look; curly brown hair, though his was longer than his brother's, greenish brown eyes and long limbs. At his side was a sword, but across his back was the weapon he really favoured; a bow. Tor wasn't sure how he felt about this. Archery had never been considered a Nord's skill, but the boy was deadly with it. He could hit a target over one hundred metres away with ease, and accuracy unprecedented by any of Tor's ancestors. _It must come from his mother's side. _

Nik was smiling as he drew up to Erik. 'How was court?'

'The usual,' he replied, in his subdued tone used for strangers and his brother.

'What, they didn't let you in again?'

'Only the Thane is allowed in,' Tor said sharply, stopping his son's before they resumed their frequent bickering, and Nik got the wrong impression about Erik's absence from the meeting. 'It has always been that way, and it always will be.'

He shrugged, uncaring. 'As you say, Father. The Darr's is here.'

'Now?' Tor asked, annoyed. The Darr was an officer of the crown, and his presence was rarely good news.

Nik nodded before riding back to the town, leaving them to follow at a more leisurely pace.

There was no great welcome for Tor Blackmoore; he had never inspired the loyalty of Jarl Stormcloak, or his fellows. That said he was a skilled, competent leader, and wasn't unpopular; he just wasn't much liked. _It all comes back to the name, and supposed attitude that comes with it. _

He rode his horse through the town, up to the longhouse. It was situated on at the top of the hill, with a sturdy wooden wall surrounding it and the immediate area. A barracks was situated off to one side, next to the longhouse, and the centre square was used for training and the ceremonial greetings when the Jarl, or even in rare cases, the King, visited.

Tor dismounted and gave his horse over to an attendant before making his way into the longhouse, pushing open the heavy wooden door. Standing in front of Tor's high seat was the Darr, Tor's Steward and Nik.

The Darr was the justice in each province; he was a king's man, an officer of the crown, ranking just below the Thane. To harm him without the proper incentive was a death penalty. Only the Jarl was above truly above a Darr, and the King of course; but Thanes had occasionally gotten off free. There was a Darr for each Thane's county, and they normally lived in a fort constructed by the king. Luckily, although the King was allowed to recommend an appointment, the vote was decided by the Thane, his Lairds, (the minor landholders sworn to him like a Thane was to a Jarl but on a smaller scale,) and other important people in the county. The Jarl and Thegn also were given a vote, but very rarely exercised it. Jarl Jon had only ever exercised his vote once, in another county. Although the Jarl's choice held a lot of sway it was, in truth, just one vote, so the power resided mainly with the Thane, as it should in his own county. The Blackmoore county was Eion; the land he ruled directly, a place of good land and deep mines.

As Tor entered he noticed his wife, Sonjia, coming in from a side door. Nik looked relieved to see her; Tor's Steward wasn't as outgoing as he could be, to put it lightly and while Nik was definitely more confident and outgoing than his brother, but there was still that Blackmoore quality to him that Sonjia wasn't affected by. Tor wasn't sure what she had been doing before, but it didn't matter to him. She had always been very independent.

Tor smiled when he saw her, and she caught his own eye with a grin before he turned his attention to the Darr. On Tor's approach he inclined his head.

'My lord Thane.'

'Darr Creki.'

Creki smiled; he was a decent man, one of Tor's choices. He had fought in the Civil War, on the Stormcloak side, and was well liked. The Darr held his position for thirty years, the equivalent of a life term, unless they died of course. They were allowed to be sworn in at eighteen, and were often a Carl of some sort before, but not always. A commoner could be sworn in, quite easily in fact if they were popular and able enough, but weren't often. Creki was one such man though, having been in the post for five years now. He was about thirty, so by the time he retired at fifty-five, assuming all went well, he would likely only live a few more years before he died. After all, most Skyrish citizens only lived for fifty years, with the nobles living an extra ten normally. After he retired he would hold the title, Darre (pronounced Darr-a) and be given a small plot of land for him and his wife, should he have one, in the King's hold. It was not inheritable.

'What can I do for you?' Tor asked.

'Not for me, Thane Tor; for the Thegn.'

'Carl Alsfur Stormcloak?'

'Indeed,' he said with a smile before turning to business. 'His Thegn requests a third of your banners for the attack on Fort Amol.'

That didn't bode well. 'I see. Follow me.' He glanced at Erik. 'You come too.' Tor looked pointedly at Sonjia and she followed, rolling her eyes.

Tor led them into a small war room off of the main hall. Erik closed the door, before the Thane looked back at Darr Creki.

'I heard about the coming attack. Why are you acting as a messenger boy?'

He shrugged, looking a little annoyed. 'I thought it would be an interesting job.'

'Of course you did,' he said. The Darr looked openly affronted now and Sonjia leapt it to cover Tor's mistake.

'The Thane understands that working for the Thegn must be a prestigious position.' Tor raised his eyebrows before catching on.

'Yes, of course. Carl Alsfur is an interesting man.' The relationship between a Thane and a Darr was very mixed. Only the King had really supreme authority over them.

Creki looked a little irritated, but he continued anyway. 'The Thegn wants a thousand of your finest men.' Tor was dismayed; that was a third of his strength and Carl Alsfur had yet to prove himself an astute military commander.

'This is an order?' he asked, unwilling to put his men in the young Thegn's hands.

'It will be,' Creki said pointedly.

The Blackmoore motto came rushing back to him. _The Jarl's Man. _'Fine,' he sighed. 'But I want Carl Erik to hold command of the Blackmoore men. And I will expect Amol to compensate me for my men, or the Thegn, I don't care,' he added.

'Done,' Creki agreed crisply.

Tor rested his hands on the war table, thinking hard. 'What requires a thousand men anyway?'

Darr Creki shrugged. 'I hear that the bandits took Fort Amol. Even now Thane Amol is raising his banners.' He inclined his head to Tor and starting to leave, his part done, but stopped suddenly. 'The men are not your average bandits. They are tough, and now wear Amol armour. There are some three thousand of them in the fort, which we all know to be very well defended anyway. It would be best to keep your own men close, Thane Tor, in case this should spread.' With that he left, leaving behind a sombre mood.

'Erik,' Tor began. 'You'd better step up now,' he said forcefully. 'Don't let yourself be intimidated by the Thegn. I don't care whose son he is; I don't trust his military experience.'

'Yes, Father,' Erik confirmed, a little take aback. 'Shall I go now?'

Tor nodded and he left before Sonjia glared at him.

'What was that?'

Tor shook his head. 'I just want to be careful.'

She tiled her head in annoyance, before shaking it once and then stepping into his open embrace. She hadn't liked how Tor had said it, but what he said was something Erik needed to hear. Her face softened as she wrapped her arms around him. 'The Thegn will be fine, I'm sure. As for your own son, don't you have any faith in him?'

Tor snorted as if the suggestion was preposterous. He found himself relaxing for the first time since he left Jarl's Head for Windhelm. 'Too much in fact. He will make a damn good Thane.'

She got right to the heart of the matter. 'So why not send Nik?'

'Nikulas,' he sighed. 'I'm not sure about him.'

'I would expect you to have more faith in your own son.'

Tor stared at her, mulling over her words. 'So would I,' he agreed. 'So would I.'

**Hope that was good! Sorry for the wait! Review please!**


	16. The Worst Traits

**Sorry for the time ti took to bring this to you. Work and all that. Anyway, a bit more of magic will be revealed here as well as the things that Assur is going to learn, all very important for later. Anyway, hope its good. A battle with Alsfur will be next chapter, then Idgrod and Jon return and from there the story will move rapidly along. **

**The thanks: to thedude19859, thanks for the Story Favourite, Favourite, Follower for my stories. To deacon1217, thanks for the Favourite and Story Favourite. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked it, but as for that Halo end, it means nothing to me. I mean, who's Cortana? Anyway, thanks. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Cheers for pointing it out. It's an Assur chapter so hopefully you'll like it! Let's hope that 2,000 ish men is enough. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! It's good that you like Tor and not his sons because (especially Erik) that's what Tor's like on the outside so if you hate them, that's actually good. (Ish.) Good luck with those exams. I passed my driving test a few days ago, so that's cool for me. (We do it at 17 over in England.) Oh as for a Casta chapter, there will be one in two chapters time. Soon, I'll only have a few POV's to juggle. Also, to FractiousDay, thanks for the Story Favourite for Unending. **

**Anyway, screw Bethesda. They've postponed DLC again. I better get it free or something if it ever comes out. They've said they are going to release new stuff on PS3 but it will probably suck. Really badly. And cost twenty quid. Yeah, I know. It really sucks. **

**Assur Winter**

'**Are you ready?' **

'What?' Assur jerked to attention to see Colette Marence standing over him. 'What was that?' he repeated, confused.

She looked affronted, but then she always did. In his time in a hospital bed he had come to know her pretty well, but not through his own doing. Colette was the expert in the School of Restoration, the art of healing wounds and influencing the body. After he had collapsed outside the College they had taken him to the infirmary and nursed him back to health. None of the mages were sure of what happened in Winterhold, and weren't about to find out, so they had passed him off as a novice ready to learn, which was true; it had been Assur's unspoken intent for years to learn magic in the College. Now, after weeks of recovery it seemed like he was ready to join his fellow apprentices.

'Yes, I'm fine. I think I'm ready.'

She looked smug. 'Good. See how useful Restoration is?'

Assur nodded; it seemed that he was the only person here, apart from Colette, who respected the School. In truth, she was just a paranoid breton who was convinced the world was against her. One of the side affects of living among magic, it would seem.

Colette left and Assur struggled from bed. Lessons were in an hour; the Master Wizard, Mirabelle Ervine, had already briefed him on College life when he had been strong enough to listen.

His new room was small, but cosy. They had moved him here a few days ago. It was one of many arranged in a circle around a central pillar of flashing light in the several storied tower called 'The Hall of Attainment'. All the apprentices resided here while the Scholars and Teachers lived in the 'Hall of Countenance.' The Archmage lived in the main hall, in a massive room above it; the Hall of Elements. These distinct sections were arranged around a central, snowy courtyard. Even though Assur had been here for weeks, he hadn't met any of the other apprentices, so even as he pulled on his robes, light brown and blue, fastened with a light belt, with a hood attached, he was nervous. His heart beat in his chest at the thought of meeting other mages, probably better than him at magic, and he swallowed hard. He hadn't been allowed to show off his skills yet, feeble as they were, but Mirabelle had assured him that it was a new term. The other apprentices would be just as uncertain. Assur Winter left his room, taking a brief glance around at his new home, and with a fluttering heart exited the hall into the snow outside.

He pulled over his hood and started to trudge across the courtyard, before glancing down at Winterhold. _No doubt Father has disowned me by now. _He didn't really care, but the town had been badly damaged. Luckily someone with a brain had started reconstruction. Winterhold was looking okay now, but with thoughts of his family came thoughts of Birna, which was strange. _But then she did save me; how could I forget that?_ He quickly shrugged off these weird thoughts, and continued onto the hall. Assur knew he was late for breakfast, but he didn't feel hungry anyway, so it was probably a good thing. He just wanted to get into the first day and see what happened.

Assur burst out of the snow, and into the Hall of Elements, closing the huge doors firmly behind him. There was a short antechamber with two doors leading to the library and the Archmage's tower, before an elaborate gate that led into a large circular room. Assur stepped forward, his boots clicking off the stone floor, and into the main chamber. It was large, and reached high up to the ceiling, more than three hundred feet away. Pillars surrounded the main circle, and past them was a sheltered area, presumably to perform magic in, that wrapped around the room. In the middle, another huge column of crackling light reached up to the sky, and next to that was an old man, presumably the Wizard, a teacher. Around him were five students of different races. Two were Dark Elves, one a Nord like Assur, which was a relief, a Khajiit and a Breton. He took a deep breath, his heart beating quickly, before stepping forward. The Wizard turned to look at him.

'Ah, there he is. The last student. Please, come forward. We are just about to start.' The Wizard was very old, but his eyes twinkled lightly, and his movements were steady.

Assur stepped forward, into their group, glancing around nervously. Already the novelty of a new student had worn off, after all they were all new, and the Wizard began.

'Welcome to the College of Winterhold,' he said, clapping his hands together. 'My name is Tolfdir. You have all been admitted because you show exceptional magical talent, and we are going to hone that. Now, I believe in practical application as much as the next mage, but I'm sure Mirabelle has already run you through the safety guidelines.' There was a general consensus of nodding. 'Then you'll know we only get started once you understand the principle. Right?' He looked around; at this time no one was willing to say anything and so they remained silent. 'Good! Okay, take a seat anywhere, on the floor, on the steps, I don't mind. Just make sure you can hear me.'

The apprentices moved off and Assur found himself following the main group, which consisted of the Nord, a Dark Elf and the Khajiit. They sat on the steps that led up to the covered area and the Tolfdir began to speak.

'I am the Master of Alteration. Can anyone tell me what that is?' He didn't look too hopeful; no doubt most students knew little about magic, but even so Assur was surprised to see he was the only hand up. Tolfdir's eyes lit up and he nodded at Assur. 'Go on, my boy.'

'The School of Alteration involves the manipulation of the physical world and its natural properties,' Assur said confidently before he noticed everyone staring at him. Embarrassment shot through him; _did I get it wrong? _

'Very good!' Tolfdir's voice broke him from his revere. 'Yes, very good. Can you give me some examples of what it deals with?'

'Waterbreathing, magical protection,' he ventured, unsure.

'Right again,' he said proudly. 'What's your name?'

Assur looked around, a little uncomfortable. It would be worse to decline, but he wasn't sure what his name would arouse in the other students. 'Assur Winter.' As it turned out, he was met with indifference, save in the look of Tolfdir and the other Nord.

'Right, well, very good. Now…' Tolfdir started on about aspects of Alteration while Assur looked around at the other students nervously. The Nord and the Dark Elf were watching him.

'That was impressive.' It was the Nord.

'Thanks,' Assur replied, wary.

'No, don't worry; we aren't all jealous and corrupt.' That was the Dark Elf. She reached across the other Nord. 'My name is Brelyna Maryon.'

Assur took her hand, feeling better already. 'You know mine.'

The Nord sat next to him held out his own hand. 'Onmund. Was it Assur _Winter_?'

'That's right,' Assur said.

'Clan Winter?'

He nodded again.

'Okay,' Brelyna interrupted, looking suspicious; 'what's so special about his name?'

'Well,' Onmund began, still keeping his eyes on Assur; 'Clan Winter are one of the oldest clans in Skyrim, and the rulers of Winterhold. We're among nobility.'

Brelyna put on a surprised look. 'So… if we befriend you, we all get plots of land?'

Assur found himself smiling. 'If you don't piss me off.'

'Right,' he said promptly, before pointing at him. 'You're my new friend.'

Onmund nodded. 'I could do worse.'

Brelyna hit him lightly, and Assur smiled again. Things were already fitting together, and on his first day! He turned his attention back to the Wizard, who was just finishing his speech.

'Now I know you all want to do a bit of magic,' Tolfdir said, smiling. 'So, I would like you all to get practicing a shielding spell. It's simple enough, and useful. Also, it will give you a good insight into what I've been saying and how useful Alteration is. After that though, we'll hit the lectures and get you learning some knowledge! Go over and practice on those dummies. Get a partner to activate the switch and it'll shot light cloth at you which you have to block. I'll come round and teach you the basics as you practice.'

With that the novices sprung up and started working at various stations. Assur, Brelyna and Onmund took a station together and started working on the spell.

'So, what; I just need to focus on channeling a shield in front of me?' Onmund asked Brelyna, who had already been taught the basics of magic back at home, as all Dunmer were. They didn't necessarily pick it up, but they were taught nonetheless. She was a 'learner', that is, she couldn't really do magic at the moment. Hence her presence here. All this and more Assur learnt in a burst of enthusiasm while Onmund sweated with the spell.

'No luck?' Assur asked, after five minutes had passed of standing waiting to pull the switch.

'No,' he scowled, stepping back angrily. 'Stupid spell.'

Assur shrugged and took his place, thinking hard. Tolfdir came up behind them and Onmund leapt on him and started asking questions. Winter blocked them out, studying his palm. _How can magic come from there? In a burst? That doesn't seem like a shield. _He looked at his fingers, imagining energy, watery energy, springing from them, connecting. At the same time he imagined a determined desire to protect himself, a rush of selfish feelings. He disregarded everyone else's safety as a wet feeling flowed through his hand and sprung out, the tendrils joining together to form a watery shield that shimmered in front of him. Assur let out a cry of triumph and Tolfdir came over to him, bemused, but smiling. He didn't look surprised now.

'Well done… Assur! Yes, very good.' He turned to the class. 'Look at this. This is what it should look like.' Winter looked around him, suddenly uncertain, his earlier confidence evaporating and the shield splashed to the ground, dissolving. It was then that he realised that his mouth was dry and that no one else had managed to perform the spell. Some were watching in wonder; others resentment.

'Assur, what were you feeling when you cast the spell?'

He got the impression that Tolfdir knew exactly what he wanted to hear, so there was no point in lying. 'I felt, confident, arrogant even,' he said, looking around at the other apprentices. 'Like no one could match my abilities. I knew I was right. It was quite horrible actually.' With a start he realised that he had felt the same thing when he cast his fire. Tolfdir was nodding though, oblivious to his rushing emotions and self disgust.

'Yes, magic is fickle. It chooses the confident and arrogant traits among us. That said, arrogance does not make a mage, but certainly the most powerful have all been… self confident,' he said, using the word carefully. 'Luckily, arrogance is not required for a mage. It is only the easiest way; a true mage learns to harness magic regardless of their feelings.' He looked around at the pointedly. 'Try again.' His gaze lingered on Winter. 'Good work, my boy. Yes, very good. Teach your friends the same thing.' He clapped his back and moved away, leaving Assur smiling happily, his early doubts gone suddenly. He rarely received praise and this encouragement lit him up with confidence and happiness. He turned to Brelyna and Onmund. They were looking at him stunned.

The other Nord shook his head. 'The Winters are obviously powerfully magic.'

Brelyna looked at him. 'I'm not sure. I think its talent. Nice one, Assur. Can you teach me it?'

Winter was still dizzy with pleasure, but he regained his senses quickly. 'Of course, sure.' He started explaining the technique and within an hour Onmund was creating a shield, but it wasn't as strong as Assur's. Brelyna still struggled though, and loath as he was to admit it, Assur knew why. As he watched her happily fail, he knew that she was going to find it hard to succeed because of her lack of arrogance and superiority. Assur felt sick at that; how was it that the best people should fail when he, who was obviously already feeling superior because of his name and family, should succeed. Magic was indeed fickle, and cruel. Suddenly he wasn't sure how much further he wanted to delve into this dangerous force.

Even after the class ended, Assur was still feeling awful. His emotions were conflicting with each other and now he was a little unsure exactly what he wanted. Onmund led the way, talking about the shielding spell. Brelyna was unfazed by her failure to use magic; most of the other students had been just as poor.

They entered a second room, off of the main route to the library, the only other room for teaching. This one had seats and long slightly curved sections of stone that obviously acted as desks. There was a dias at the front and a Wizard was there already, with books in front of him. Ink, quills and parchment were on the desks and for the next hour he explained the role of this room. They were going to learn many things; the more practical applications of magic, the races and history of Tamriel, politics, anatomy, creatures, warfare (not fighting, only tactics) and other things besides. Assur soon forgot his problems as he began to get absorbed in the making up of a skeever. The wizard was in fact a Scholar, a mage who investigated a specific topic and was separate from the college in many ways, save teaching the occasional lesson.

'Knowledge is power, and a mage must be knowledgeable,' he said. Assur couldn't agree more.

Here Onmund fell down a little, while Brelyna excelled. Assur still topped both of them though; his memory was fantastic and he was grasping the complex lesson easily. It was almost enough to make him forget about his previous doubts about magic, but they were still there when they headed back to their rooms in the Hall of Attainment.

'Here, come into my room. I managed to get a bottle of ale in from the tavern before I came,' Onmund offered.

His thoughts were still heavy so Assur declined. The other Nord shrugged and Brelyna declined as well. The first day had been heavy going, and they all needed their rest.

As Assur sunk into bed his mind was still racing with thoughts. But foremost among them; the one thing that was keeping him awake was a simple question; _Is magic going change me, or have I always been like this all along? _He fell asleep, falling into a dream.

_He was riding a horse. The day was dark, and stormy, so he couldn't tell where he was. A cry echoed from behind him and he felt a hand grab the back of his cloak. He fell heavily, gasping for air as a man appeared above him, dagger plunging into his chest. _

_The dream shifted until he was inside the Winterhold longhouse. He recognised his father, his face drawn. He was shouting angrily, but his intention was clear; he wanted to get his son back. He tried to tell his father that it was him; he was here, but then he tripped and the world fell into black._

**Anyway, hopefully I'll get the next chapter on quicker. Let's hope so. Please review guys. **


	17. Leaders of Men

**Hopefully this is quicker for you guys. Work is piling up. Also, England's got its own Sandy; floods. Ah, nothing says end of the world like more rain! **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent, you live in the UK? (Wasn't talking to you specifically, just everyone.) Which country/part? Also, wasn't aware we had High School in Great Britain. Cool that you're identifying with the characters! Thanks for the review! Good job with the exams! Gald you like the magic. To Foacir, thanks for the review! Good to see you again! I'm really pleased you like how I'm working out magic and thanks for the great compliments. It was weird that you can actually say 'when Ulfric was Jarl, etc.' That's really cool. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Well, it will be a little more complex; there's many elements to it. Also, Delphine hater had a great suggestion! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! That's a brilliant idea! Do you mind if I use it? I could really try and mix that in to stuff and it makes magic far more dangerous. That is really cool. (It is kind of like the Dark Side that way). To Czerynon, thanks for the Story Follower! Review soon! **

**Hope the battles good! Jon and Idgrod joined chapter next And then Casta, and then, finally, we see the return of Nelkir who will (whether you like it or not) become a much bigger part of the story. **

**Carl Alsfur Stormcloak **

'**We can't attack from the **east**,' **Thane Balbus Amol stated, pointing at the point on a map to the east of Fort Amol. They were in the command tent of the army laying siege to the fort. Four thousand men; Amol, Blackmoore and Stormcloak, all ready for battle.

The rebels had proven more persistent than Carl Alsfur Stormcloak had originally anticipated; they were professional, resilient, and ready to die for their cause. Stormcloak had no idea what they thought they were fighting for, but it didn't matter; they needed to be destroyed, else the Stormcloaks would be the laughing stock of Skyrim. Alsfur wasn't going to let that happen.

Alsfur Stormcloak followed his finger, turning his attention back to the battle at hand. 'Why?'

Amol almost returned a scathing reply, but held it at the last moment. 'The hill, and the overhang on the walls makes it impractical to scale.'

'But not impossible,' Alsfur said, turning away. 'What about the north wall?'

'That would be possible, Carl,' Erik Blackmoore told him, standing in front of the table. Alsfur looked him over. He was a couple of years younger than himself, and quiet. He didn't seem to share the Blackmoore arrogance as Alsfur had often observed in Thane Tor, and seemed likable enough.

'Why?' he asked, watching the other Carl carefully. He knew the answer, Father had spent long enough teaching him tactics, but he wanted to be seen to listen to his men. That said, he knew he would have to draw the line eventually or risk looking weak. But now wasn't the time. Not just yet.

'The ground is quite flat. The defences are standard, and we can use shields as cover.'

'What about the scorpions, or catapults?' Alsfur asked.

'Big shields,' he shrugged. Stormcloak nodded, but the Darr of the county, who had joined them with the few hundred king's men that resided in Amol's land, spoke up.

'What about the men's lives? Behind every shield is a brave Nord.'

'Exactly; and that is why we are going to win,' Alsfur countered. In truth he hadn't considered how the men would feel about this attack. Fearlessness was powerful, but limiting. He would never understand the individual man in the way his father could.

'We have to go with something or else we're never getting in,' Amol pointed out. Alsfur could see that he was anxious to regain his seat. 'Gods know what they've done in there…'

'We'll fine out soon enough, Thane Amol. The leader's head is yours,' he promised, clasping the other Nord's arm. He looked back at Erik who turned away, as if caught spying on him. As Alsfur straightened up he considered this possibility, before pushing it from his mind. If they didn't have unity, they had nothing.

'Well, I propose a four pronged attack. The east will be a diversion. Those men will have to stand firm. Get half of our archers there to keep the enemy occupied, but they won't advance properly until the right moment. The other half can go up the cliff on Fort Amol's west side to rain hell from there. They'll use fire arrows and rocks. Amol, how will we deal with the south?'

'It's flat too,' he mused. 'I suggest an advance, behind shields to scale the wall. We'll need some archers to cover them.'

Alsfur nodded. 'Take some from the east then; they won't be as valuable as those in the west. Carl Erik?'

Blackmoore swallowed and his face took on a steely look. 'I'll lead the Blackmoore men with a ram to make up the main assault on the north gate.'

Alsfur smiled. 'I appreciate it, but I'll lead the main attack.'

'I want some position,' he said, steadfast.

The Thegn looked him over briefly; he didn't look the type to back down, but Alsfur had been wrong in these matters before. 'Fine, then join me as my shield brother.'

Gasps went out through the commanders assembled. The shield brother of the future Jarl was a great honour; it was one of the greatest on a Nordic battlefield to accompany the commander personally. Erik looked shocked before he recovered his composure, and inclined his head. 'It would be an honour.'

Alsfur nodded before turning back to his commanders. 'Other positions?'

'I want the south,' Amol demanded in typical Nord custom.

'Fine. The east?'

The Darr spoke up. 'I would have that honour.'

He nodded his confirmation before looking at the Captain of the Stormcloak Stone Guard. 'You'll take the west. Make it count.'

'By my honour, my Thegn.'

There was nothing else to say now. 'Good; I'll see you gentlemen tomorrow.'

They murmured assent and started leaving. Just as Erik was exiting, Alsfur held him back.

'A second, Carl Blackmoore.' The other Nord nodded and turned, coming up in front of Alsfur. For the first time Stormcloak actually noticed his height; he was only a couple of inches below himself. That and the name; a question about the Blackmoore's heritage took over Alsfur's mind, but to ask it would look ignorant, so he tried to ignore it.

'Are you sure you want to do this?' he asked instead.

Erik was puzzled. 'What, my Thegn?'

'Do you want to be my shield brother; it is a very dangerous duty for so young.'

'So is commanding a battle,' he blurted out before trying to retract it.

Alsfur stared at him, taken aback by his forwardness. His mind was racing with ideas as to what to do next; punish him? Strip him of his position in the coming battle? The punishments were all far too extreme, or unjustified; they were the sign of a weak man.

Stormcloak smiled. 'Yes, it is, but someone has to do it.'

'Then why not me?'

Alsfur looked on the other Nord in a new light. He was certainly determined, and… ballsy. He wasn't sure if he liked that, but he respected it. In truth he recognised many of his own traits in Blackmoore. 'No, this is my job.' Erik looked ready to protest but this time Alsfur raised his hand, silencing him just like Father did on many occasions. A thrill of authority rushed through the Carl as he realised that he was gaining respect and power in his position, just like Father.

'I have to lead the men; it is my duty. I led them here, it is only right that I finish the job and bleed with them. You understand?'

Erik nodded, looking unsure, like a child who was learning something new. With another start, Alsfur realised that he had just taught the other Nord something, quite unwittingly.

'Good. Now go get some rest. It's going to be a long day tomorrow.'

Erik nodded, still somewhat surprised by the life lesson from a man only two years his senior, before leaving briskly.

Alsfur watched him go, still feeling pleased with himself, and glad that he had done something right today. He walked to the next section of his tent and pulled off his sword belt, slumping into the camp bed, feeling hopeful, as he played absently with his dagger.

**The day of the battle came **sweet and sharp. A thin wind hung in the air, and a light mist covered the land. That was good, seeing as it would cover the attackers.

Fort Amol was looking cold and stark in the morning light; the rebels knew what was coming, and they were preparing for it. As Alsfur exited his tent he noticed that the men were jittery. It was the fear. Not something he experienced; battle just didn't scare him like it did others, but he could see that the men were nervous. It would be fine as soon as the fighting begun, he knew.

Carl Erik appeared at his side, in full battledress; chainmail covered with the deep red surcoat of Clan Blackmoore. Three golden bars resided in the emblem at the middle, and over that was plate covering his upper torso and sword arm, his right, in the typical style of Skyrim. Alsfur was dressed similarly, but his was slightly finer quality and the bear of Eastmarch roared its defiance on his surcoat. A hood of chainmail guarded both their necks, waiting for a helm to go over.

'Carl Erik, good to see you,' Alsfur said, grasping his arm with his own free hand, the one not holding his helm.

'And you, my Thegn.'

Alsfur grinned and beckoned over a messenger from the retinue following him. 'Call the men to arms. I want the commanders in their positions by the hour. We advance on two horn blasts. Right?'

'Aye, Thegn.' He dashed off and Alsfur started rounding up his men. Within an hour the Blackmoore and Stormcloak men were ready, lining up in a line ready to assault the main gate. The defenders were beginning to panic, and they were filling the wall quickly. Already Alsfur could hear the crank of machinery.

'Those scorpions won't reach us.' Stormcloak looked round in surprise at Erik, who was eyeing the defences with a keen eye. 'They haven't been oiled properly.'

'What do you mean?'

'They haven't oiled them. It's possible, but unlikely, that they've rusted. See, it's the sound. They won't have half the power. In addition, if they haven't oiled them, they definitely haven't checked the wood for rot from rain, or fog,' he said pointedly. 'If so, they're going to get a nasty surprise when it comes back at them,' he finished.

Alsfur raised his eyebrows. 'Really? What are the chances of them working now?'

'Knowing out luck, one hundred percent,' Erik smiled thinly.

'Huh?' Stormcloak shook his head. 'Well, it was one hundred percent in the first place anyway, so we're not losing anything.'

Before Erik could reply a messenger ran up to Alsfur, breathing heavily.

'They're ready, Thegn Stormcloak.'

'Good.' He knew what was required of him now and without hesitation, he stepped forward, out of the lines so he faced the men. He flashed them a smile and started pacing. He felt his mouth go dry suddenly, but they were definitely expecting something now. A little jitter of nervousness rose but he suppressed it by opening his mouth.

'Here before you stand the rebels. I can't make judgement as to their character; I have never fought them. If I had, they would be dead.' The men roared their approval and he smiled to himself, confidence shooting through him. 'I can make judgement as to myself though. I am not my father. I am not Dragonborn. I am not a hero… but I am a man.' He looked into as many faces as he could. 'Just as Talos was a man. I don't profess to godhood though, but by the gods I do profess to be a warrior. I will do my part.'

'I can also make judgement as to you. I see a group of Nords. Nothing else is required; you _know_ what it takes to live up to that name, as I will mine. We are not to be forgotten. It is our deeds in life that matter, for our deeds will live on in Sovngarde, and I tell you there is no greater glory than a death for Skyrim, nor a greater, glory, for _Sovngarde_!'

The roar was deafening and two bursts shot through the crowd. It was time. The words were simple, but he had said what the men wanted to hear; that's all there was to charisma.

'Onwards, to death and glory!' Alsfur turned, his heart pounding, and began to run, tearing up the ground with his boots. His armour rattled as the men followed, bellowing their cries. He pulled on his helm as arrows began to whiz down. Alsfur deflected one with his shield, stumbling back. He felt an arm on his shoulder; Erik pushed him upright and ran forward. Alsfur followed him, pleased suddenly with his choice of shield brother, as the men engulfed him.

More arrows fell, cutting down his soldiers. A scorpion bolt slammed into a set of men on Alsfur's right, as the ground began to turn muddy. _Guess they are working. _

'Shields up and run as fast as you fucking can! Ram, keep moving forward. The rest of you, protect the ram. Use your shields!' He stopped, and pointed towards his archers. 'Up now. Give them something to play with.' He pushed one forward to get them moving and started sprinting for the wall of Fort Amol. It was large and would offer some protection from the rain of arrows and bolts assaulting his men. _Wait, my men. They are my first priority._

He sprung back, lifting his shield. He drew his sword in a rush of steel. It flew from the sheath and the skyforge flashed even in the fog. A pang of excitement and apprehension shot through him, electrifying his arm as he remembered what exactly he was carrying; a sword for leaders. It sent fire into his arm; he felt it humming. With a cry he let out a bellow;

'FOR THE STORMCLOAKS!' The men cheered, pushing forward, keeping their shields up.

Alsfur checked them before racing ahead, slamming against the wall. The ram was here now and the men were pushing it into position. The archers were taking shots from the limited safety of the fort's wall, as rocks rained down. One scratched Alsfur's helmet and he shook his head. Erik was beside him, his shield battered by the missiles. Alsfur threw him a grin before checking the ram.

With a burst of adrenaline he realised it had broken the wooden doors and was now ramming into the portcullis. He made his way over to it as arrows fell. One caught his side, ripping his surcoat but flying off his chainmail, leaving only a rush of pain. Alsfur grimaced and continued on, keeping close to the wall.

The men working the ram were sweating as they heaved it forward, creating a massive bang as the ram's metal tip impacted on the iron of the portcullis. Alsfur stepped close, ready to help them with the last push when a whoosh of flame invaded his ears. The fire exploded over the ram, and Stormcloak was hauled back as the flames leapt down its length, singing his surcoat and burning his shield. In a mad rush of adrenaline he smashed the wooden shield against the wall, screaming as the fire leapt up his arm, heating the mail encasing him, burning his flesh. The shield fell apart and Alsfur dropped to the ground, rolling to put out the fire that had caught on his surcoat.

By then though, the ram was gone, pushed away by panicked men. The attackers let out groans, and then screams, as arrows slammed into them, taking the men down in bloody bursts. Alsfur's vision was swimming but he felt a strong arm on his shoulder dragging him to his feet; it was Erik. His face was slightly burnt and his hair was scorched. Blackmoore had obviously saved him from the fire.

Alsfur nodded his thanks, as he laboured to catch his breath; his arm was stinging, but it wasn't burnt properly, thank the gods. He didn't trust his voice; his throat was becoming too tight and he could hardly breathe. He stumbled forward, trying to call back his men who had become disoriented with the loss of the ram. With a quick glance he saw they needed something to rally behind. But what? What could he possibly do that would get them to come to him? The answer was obvious; break the gate, but all he had was his… his sword.

Kodaav glimmered in the light and Alsfur was filled with a crazed certainty. He never felt fear , but this time his courage leapt and he ran up to the gate. His throat was tightening painfully and with a cry he slammed the sword into the portcullis. The blade ripped through it, blue light dancing faintly on its edge. With another cry he slammed it down and the blade was covered in a static light. It tore through the iron easily and with a rush of energy he pushed forward, through the tangled iron. His armour caught and the steel upper torso guard screeched horribly. And then he was in front of the enemy.

Those in front of the gate looked shocked but their courage returned and they rushed him, screaming. Alsfur readied himself as his throat tightened again. With a grunt he threw himself to the side of the gateway, kicking away the first opponent. A second man thrust his sword at Alsfur's stomach but he twisted and turned, swinging Kodaav round. It took of the man's head in an explosive burst of blood.

The next two men came on Stormcloak quickly and he stepped back, trying to defend himself from both, but without his shield it was a hard task. Where the hell was Erik? More men were coming up behind them and he gritted his teeth, before an axe dropped down on his arm. With a flash of pain he glanced over at the wound, and the next axe blow caught his shoulder, forcing him to his knees. His throat was becoming unbearably tight now, but he parried the next strike, sending it off to the side before ramming his shoulder into the man above him. Red pain slammed through it, exploding into his fingertips. He dropped Kodaav, letting out a yell. Sweat and blood drenched his body now and he fell back against the wall as his men came streaming through the ruined gateway. Fierce hand to hand ensued, with the trained Nordic men at arms slowly pushing back the tenacious rebels. The two men were still coming on at Alsfur, but suddenly Erik cut out their legs from below them and then directed his sword into their throats. Stormcloak scooped Kodaav off the muddy ground and grasped Erik's arm, using him as a support for his injured shoulder.

'Sorry, Thegn. I was held up,' he explained.

Alsfur ignored him though. His arm was bleeding freely now, the already burnt skin cracking open at the slightest movement of his mail, so he ripped off the bottom of his surcoat with his dagger and bound it tightly. He was breathing heavily, but otherwise the pain was receding and his ears were opening up to the final sounds of a battle.

The Carl staggered through the ground, coming up to Thane Amol who stood over a particular man.

'What is it?' Stormcloak asked. The dead man was dressed in new mail, with a sword belt and cracked helmet. But it was the surcoat that caught his attention, sending shock through his system.

Thane Amol spat on the body. 'It's a Silver-Blood man.'

**Hope that was good. If I'm not drowned I'll try and get out the next chapter quickly. The characters converge on the court now and things get moving! **


	18. The King of Men

**Yes! Ha ha! Let's get racing! (Formula One voice) Anyway, time to actually get this plot moving. It's a Casta chapter next, then Jon. Also, Selina will be back soon. I've officially bumped up her role big time, so expect to see a lot more of her (as these POV characters go anyway.) **

**The thanks; To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Thanks for putting in the idea, I will put you in as a inspiration (at the top of my thanks thing before the actual chapter.) It's a great idea. I'm really pleased that you liked the chapter and most importantly the speech! To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I'm pleased that you like Alsfur (he is like Ulfric really. Ulfgar will be an interesting character.) Well, the Silver-Bloods are meant to be hated (or are they)? Ah, I know the place (not well, but still). Must be a different school, because most every school is called secondary in England (as I have no doubt you know). It not just raining (like usual) down in the south area, but seriously _raining. _Out house has nearly been flooded loads of times. Also, do you have a political party allegiance or anyone you think is doing a good job in Parliament? Just wondering. Be great to talk politics. To x8Lunacy-Fringe8x, thanks for the Story Favourite. Anyway, thanks to all you guys! **

**By the way, this Bar Mock Trial thing I did, our school reached the finals, a feat unheard of before in our school, and I was a barrister in the process, so I was pretty pleased! Okay, let's get going then. I do still like writing Jon. He's more special now that he's a rarer POV (Alsfur seems to be dominating now.) **

**Idgrod, the Younger**

**Idgrod Ravencrone II, 'the Younger', rode **up to the gates of Whiterun as the sun reached its zenith in the sky. She was tired from the days ride, and her horse was breathing loudly, but it didn't stop Idgrod from admiring the huge gateway of the capital longingly. Of course, Morthal had nothing on this city, built on a huge hill, and surrounded by a low, but strong stone wall. It was a bit more rustic than Idgrod would have expected from the capital, but then in truth the true capital was actually Solitude or Windhelm in Nordic society. The Wind-Shifter's had never held the crown until now, when his Majesty Balgruuf I was elected High King of Skyrim. Even so, the huge wood and metal gateway was more than impressive enough to send off the right impression on visitors and would-be attackers.

Idgrod Ravencrone spurred her horse forward up to the gate followed by her guard, an impressive force, not normally seen in Morthal, of some fifty men and some twenty attendants and advisors. The banner of Hjaalmarch was raised high, a grey-green with a stylised swirl in the middle, before the major Clans started taking on animals as their sigils. It was now that she felt a certain amount of pride in her family. That and the silver that adorned her buckles and the sheath of her dagger made Idgrod feel that much better. Mother hadn't wanted her to be outshone by the other Jarls.

_But then, that wasn't hard_, she thought sourly as he caught sight of the Silver-Bloods ahead of her on the main road that led up to Dragonsreach, the King's palace. She got a certain amount of satisfaction from seeing the crowds reaction to their presence though; it wasn't good. People were jeering and booing, but their guards were easily pushing back the people who got too close. It was a moment like this that she missed Djurien; they could have mocked them together to their hearts content. She sighed unhappily.

Idgrod looked at them for a few more moments, carefully avoiding the people around her, before one of them caught her eye. He was a year of so older than herself, and riding behind the Jarl. He looked sombre, glum even, but in his grey eyes she caught a hint of disdain. She couldn't help disliking him, especially after she noticed the silver splashed over his clothing. He was handsome though; his face was sharply defined, his jaw was strong and his shoulder length brown hair fell over his forehead in soft waves. Idgrod snapped her vision back to the ground in front of her horse before he could distract her further. Even so, she felt his stare burning into her. It was all she could do not to shout something at him.

By the time she had managed to ignore him Idgrod noticed that they were at the steps that led up to Dragonsreach, a high descent that twisted and turned up to the covered walkway that led into the palace proper. Idgrod dismounted, and with her guard following, began to climb the steps. It wasn't hard, but she kept glancing down to see where she was stepping. It was a relief when she reached the top.

The Silver-Bloods entered first and she followed, stopping in the main entrance hall. She didn't want to get caught up with the Silver-Bloods, so instead she left the Jarl to pay homage to the King first, waiting with some of her guard in the entrance hall. The others she dismissed to find her apartments. The hall was quiet, despite the arrival of what she was guessing were the bulk of the Jarls to the court. She also noticed a few Thanes circling the area, but she didn't recognise their sigils. Obviously most of the main people were around the King in the main throne room just above her, up the steps.

'Jarl Idgrod?'

Idgrod snapped to attention. 'Her daughter.'

The Steward looked her over, before nodding. 'You wish to see His Majesty?'

She nodded and he started walking forward, watching to ensure that she was following properly. As she reached the first of the steps, a spasm of fear shot through her, chilling her limbs. She hadn't even considered what she was doing until now, but she was going to meet the King! Her knees buckled and she fell back. Idgrod felt a flash of embarrassment as she realised how this would look before a strong pair of arms caught her deftly, righting her. Idgrod murmured some words of thanks before she noticed who had caught her. A flush crept up her neck as she looked into the eyes of the young Silver-Blood she had seen earlier.

'Watch your step, love. The whole court's watching.'

She resented being called 'love', but there was something about his manner that took away her breath. 'Yes, I'm fine,' she said, somewhat diffidently.

'Good. We wouldn't want a gorgeous young lady like yourself to get hurt, would we?'

Honestly, Idgrod wasn't sure if the last remark was creepy, charming, or what? Luckily her guard saved her.

'You're talking to the Thegn of Morthal,' the Captain said, grasping Silver-Blood's shoulder.

'Yes,' he said icily, looking at the man derisively; 'and very courteously, I thought.' He shrugged off the man's hand, and turned back to Idgrod. 'You have my deep apologies, my Lady.'

'I…' Why was it so hard to speak! She wanted to say something, but the Nord got there before her.

'You are here to see the King, right? Let me escort you.'

'No, I…'

'A favour for a Lady?' His grey eyes were actually quite enticing.

She nodded, feeling stupid. She couldn't let him see the effect he was having on her.

'Take my arm, if you will,' he offered. She took it gladly, and they made their way up to the main floor.

It was just as impressive as she imagined, with the pillars lining the sides, and the huge dias with the King's throne set in the middle. Above it rested a massive dragon's skull, and she held in her breath. It reminded her of her dream; the death of the dragon…

Silver-Blood pulled her gently, tugging her out of her revere. They were in front of the King, and he let go of her arm, moving to the side. With a rush of panic she curtseyed, speaking quietly. 'You Majesty, an honour.'

'Jarl Idgrod couldn't make it, could she?' he asked without premable, watching her intently.

'No, Your Majesty. She sent me in her stead.'

'Typical of old Idgrod,' he mused. She waited before he said, abruptly; 'What's your name?'

'Idgrod too, Your Majesty.'

'Indeed. Well, it is a pleasure to have you in the capital. My Steward will inform you of when the meetings will start. I'm just waiting for damn Stormcloak now. He better not send _his_ son, or wife over; I always knew that he relied on her a bit too heavily.' He looked thoughtful now. 'I wonder how the old bastard's aging.' Idgrod was uncomfortable about the son remark, she knew what it meant, but she held her tongue. 'Do you want help to your rooms?' he asked suddenly.

Idgrod was already unnerved by this king, so she shook her head.

The King wasn't going to take it for an answer though. 'No, I insist. How about we bring back Silver-Blood?'

'No, I really couldn't-'

He ignored her, calling over the Nord who had just escorted her over. He strode over confidently, watching her with a smug smile. 'I believe you've already met my new Housecarl.'

The Nord inclined his head to her, smiling smugly; 'My Lady, Carl Thorek Silver-Blood, at your service.'

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak **

**Whiterun hadn't changed much in **the years since the civil war. _Balgruuf had always been conservative,_ Jarl Jon Stormcloak thought, as he reached the top of the steps that led up to the doors of Dragonsreach. He glanced at Ralof, and nodded. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly.

'Open the doors,' he commanded to his guard. They hurried to the doors and pulled them open. It was in that rush of ven, _wind_, that Jon Stormcloak entered Dragonsreach again, after some four years. He didn't stop there though. With his cloak billowing behind him, his skyforge mail on and a new surcoat of deep black with a silver bear adorning the centre, he strode through the entrance hall and up the steps into the throne room of Dragonsreach.

The court turned to face him, shock turning their features as he stood there, looking around silently, before turning his attention to the King; Balgruuf as his guard filed in behind him.

'Drem yol lok,' he said, using Paarthurnax's traditional greeting as he stepped forward; 'You Majesty.'

The King looked stunned, but he quickly pulled it together. 'Jon Stormcloak?' He didn't look like he had actually excepted him to come.

'It's been far too long, hasn't it?'

Balgruuf nodded and stepped off his throne, descending to meet Jon luft wah luft, _face to face_. 'Far too long, Jon.'

They clasped their arms, and Balgruuf started grinning. 'This is truly good.' He noticed Jon's expression. 'You could smile?' he pointed out.

'You know me, Your Majesty. It'd be out of character.'

'As is this apology. Who set you up to this; Ysold?'

That was true, she has briefed him extensively before he had left Windhelm. He could still remember the soft rise of her voice… But Balgruuf didn't need to know that.

'You don't think I'm capable of forgiveness?' he asked, smiling thinly now.

'About as much as your father, Jon.' Stormcloak turned quiet as the memories came rushing back, but Balgruuf put a hand on his shoulder; 'I'm sorry.' Then he smiled again. 'It is good to see you again though. There are dark times ahead, but you'll find out about that soon.'

Jon looked up now, interested, but Balgruuf was already leaving him, so he bowed and left gracefully, making for the Steward to lead him to his apartments. He wasn't around, but he spotted an attendant; a helper of the Steward, nearby. As he strode over to him a man got in front of him, and Jon nearly knocked him over. He muttered apologies before he noticed who it was; Thongvor Silver-Blood.

'Jon Stormcloak. It is an honour to finally meet you,' he said, smiling darkly.

Jon's expression went cold, but he returned the greeting. 'Thongvor Silver-Blood. What do you want?'

He frowned. 'Just a talk.'

'I don't have time.' Jon started to move away but the other Nord caught his arm.

'Then make some.'

Stormcloak turned to him, rising above him threateningly. 'What then?'

'I just wanted to welcome you to the capital. It's good to see you here in a united Skyrim.'

They took Jon aback, but he answered quickly. 'It is. Hopefully we will do… great things together.'

'My thoughts exactly.' He moved back and Jon left him without even murmuring a farewell. He looked back at Ralof, who looked just as confused as he did, but with a chilling doubt Jon noticed that his hand was positioned over his axe, and it was already half out…

**There you go. Got that out quicker! Please review! Casta next! **


	19. The Talos Complex

**Here's another Casta chapter! I'm looking forward to writing the next two chapters, especially the second one, because I have some stuff planned. By the way, Selina will return soon due to popular feedback on your reviews and Ulster and Vile will be back again soon too. The floods are gone, but Blade Agent99, I think they're coming north, so watch out. **

**The thanks: To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I'm trying to be neutral, but honestly, I'm Conservative (too?). David Cameron is pretty good, but the Leveson thing was a waste of time after his decision, so that wasn't great. The High School thing is making more sense now. Just curious, was all. I like Boris too. He's funny. Jon and Balgruuf together does keep with the story; more so than you'd think. More important, it is necessary that they are friends. Anyway, why hold a grudge? To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Jon and Balgruuf got back together pretty easily, but then after four years or so, why not? It was getting stupid and things need to move on. They're both adults, (mostly.) I'm glad you liked Idgrod falling for Thorek's charm. It was fun to write. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Your thoughts are always pretty interesting. Luckily, Alsfur has not lost an arm. Don't worry. yep, you can't always be lucky in war (with the Scorpion thing). It was burning pitch, yes. I get the reference; it made me laugh, so don't worry about looking stupid. It is silver-blue; the colour of the person's eyes with the thu'um. It's all going balls-up! To robotmaster117, thanks for the Story Favourites! It does suck when your review gets cut off. I]'m glad you liked the buddy feel, and Idgrod will have a role… To Sefiriot, thanks for the Story Favourite. **

**Prefect Casta Allectus **

**The Imperial City came into **view at midday. It was huge, as was to be expected of the capital of Cyrodiil, and the Empire, made entirely of dazzling white stone. In the middle was White-Gold Tower, reaching up about a mile, huge and slender. It was inspiring, and from this distance you couldn't see the scorched stones and loose stonework that was the punishment for its reconstruction, or the top that was still unfinished after some ten years of recent building.

The city itself was built in a circular structure around the tower, with each district looking like a slice of pie from a bird's view. It was surrounded entirely by a huge lake, which led off to a huge snaking river that eventually led to the sea in the south. Each district was clean, and paved, made entirely of the same white stone. It was a beautiful day; the grass surrounding the capital was green and thick, full of different flowers, recovered from the brutal war now forty years before.

They crossed the huge bridge that led up to the Imperial City slowly, the new Emperor and his guard, with the Imperial Legion followed behind them. Everyone was dressed in their finest parade armour, and just outside the city, the Emperor changed from his coach into a gilded chariot. Prefect Casta Victorus Gaius Allectus took the chariot behind him, and in a rush of banners and the sound of horses, they were in the city.

The screams were deafening. Parties were underway on the balconies of the white buildings they passed. The army went through the outer gate first, before entering the huge twenty foot thick main gate that led into the city proper. Ahead of them, Casta could just make out the entrance at the far side of the first district, before that led into Green Emperor Way, and the site of White-Gold Tower.

The people thronging the streets were happy; it was their first chance to celebrate the victory in Black Marsh. His Imperial Highness, Titus Mede II, had arrived two weeks before so that the city may mourn its previous leader before the new one arrived. As Casta looked around he could no longer see any of the traditional black that signalled an Emperor's death; only scarlet, silver and gold. That was as it should be. Casta looked around, trying to see his family; his wife and daughter, but they escaped his vision if they were among the crowds at all. He put them from his mind, for now, and turned back to Reman Mede.

The Emperor, just ahead of him, was actually good at this; appealing to a crowd. He was waving confidently, enjoying his moment in the sun very effectively, even though, in actuality, he had done no fighting in the war. Even so, as Casta watched him, he acknowledged that this was the way it was; the Emperor was the embodiment of Talos, and as such has to be an effective military leader. It kept the Empire together, and that in itself was a good enough reason for anything.

They passed the huge gate into Green Emperor Way. Here the crowds were thinner, consisting of the rich and famous, with only a few of the normal people. The road was wide, but they soon passed the gardens and entered the graveyard that held the honoured dead; Imperial Generals and Emperors, with stones of polished marble. Ahead, rising above all else was White-Gold Tower, still majestic. It stood on a raised area, surrounded by a circular set of polished steps that surrounded its base entirely. Once at the top of the steps was a wide floor patio of polished white marble that also ringed the tower. The silver doors were thrown open and banners were hung from the walls of the structure. At the top of the steps, before the tower, were the leading members of the Elder Council. Casta picked out the High Chancellor and his retinue, and a set of Penitus Oculatus guards, in full ceremonial dress, standing as still as statues.

The chariots stopped before the steps and the new Emperor descended to massive applause that rang throughout the air. Trumpets sounded and a quick glance behind him revealed that the people were choking the exit of Green Emperor Way in a bid to see their new Emperor. Reman II waved his hand back at them and started up the steps. Casta followed with the Emperor's guards behind him.

Emperor Reman Marius Quentin Mede II reached the top and approached his Elder Council as they knelt, bowing their heads. Casta followed close behind, watching them carefully. So far they seemed ready to accept the new Emperor. Most new leaders were not so lucky; it was likely a result of his father's exceptional leadership.

High Chancellor Raxle stood when commanded by a soft word from the Emperor, and spoke; 'Talos Emperor, please accept my most humble condolences for your father.'

'It is done now, Raxle,' he replied, looking around. 'It is time for action anyway. I fear we won't have time to mourn my most exceptional father.'

'No, indeed not.' The High Chancellor looked uncomfortable. 'I think we both know what the greatest threat to the Empire is right now?'

'We would be stupid not to,' the Emperor replied. 'Let us go to the Elder Council.'

'As you wish, Talos.' He fell in behind the Emperor, and turned to Casta as Reman waved at the people for a final time.

'_Prefect_ Allectus,' he said, taking care to note Casta's new title. 'It is good to see you again.'

Casta couldn't say he agreed, but he forced a smile anyway. 'Yes, indeed High Chancellor.'

'We shall see what our new Emperor is made of, shan't we?' he said quietly. Casta didn't like that.

'I imagine it will be the same steel as his father,' he replied coolly.

Raxle looked a little unsure by the response. 'Yes, quite.'

And then they were inside White-Gold Tower. The heavy white stone surrounded them, oppressing Casta. It was dim, despite the light and fires on the walls. It was set out in a circular pattern on the first floor, surrounding the main council chambers, where the Elder Council resided. Casta only managed a brief look around before they stepped through the golden doors into the huge circular room that held the Council itself. A massive round table of white marble dominated the middle, surrounded by high backed chairs of smooth, white wood and plush scarlet cushions. The area surrounding the middle was stepped, with huge Imperial style (basically Roman style) pillars lining the edges of the room. As for the middle, clear light shone through white glass, high above in the tower's top, lighting up the world of the council to be clear and trusting, and not at all dark. The irony was not lost on Casta.

The Emperor entered and the Chancellors stood, bowing, and as one, repeating the traditional gesture to a new Emperor.

'TALOS EMPEROR!' It rang out throughout the hall and Reman led his party round to the Emperor's seat. His real throne was located elsewhere, in the Imperial Palace. They had moved after the attack on White Gold Tower. However, the Emperor's council chair was here, identifiable by the elaborate design and gilding. He sat, and the High Chancellor took his left, while Casta, newly appointed as the Prefect of the Legions, only below the Emperor now, took his right, representing the Empire's strong military power.

The Emperor settled himself as the High Chancellor began the proceedings.

'Welcome, Talos Emperor, to the Elder Council. There are no objections to the succession?' No one said anything; it was merely a procedure now. 'Good,' the Chancellor said brightly, as if that was actually a possibility. 'Now, we are here for one reason; to discuss what to do about the Aldmeri Dominion.'

Voices started clammering for attention, fists were pounded on the table, and Casta sighed. It didn't seem all that likely that anything would be done here today.

The Emperor turned to the Chancellor and raised his eyebrows. Raxle looked at him, his face revealing a mixture of nervousness and uncertainty, before he got to his feet and bellowed across the dim. 'QUIET!' Slowly, the room fell silent, as the Chancellors turned their attention to the High Chancellor. 'We must be ordered, else the Dominion has already won. We must be-'

'Chancellor.' It was the Emperor.

Raxle turned to him, still standing. 'Talos?'

'Sit down.' The High Chancellor sat down quickly and Reman leaned forward, watching the other men carefully. 'This is mindless chatter, don't you agree?' No one dared say anything to the Emperor. 'We must be decisive, gentlemen. There can only be one way to do that, and it will not be because you are bickering like fishwives.' Casta winced. The new Emperor had already picked up his father's tactless nature. The Chancellors hated to be dictated to, even though the Emperor was allowed to do it to them.

'Now, please draw your attention to the High Chancellor, so we can get this into action.' He sat back and nodded at Raxle, who was between expressions of annoyance, for being assisted, and relief, that it wasn't anything worse.

'Yes, as the Emperor said, we must be decisive. The Prefect will no doubt give us his military guidance,' he said, nodding at Casta, who was startled from his daze. 'But for now, what shall we do?' He looked around carefully at them.

'We should raise the Legions and garrison them on the border to the Aldmeri Dominion,' one man said.

'To what end?' asked Raxle.

'Protection.'

Casta decided that it was time to speak up, before it went further. 'We can't leave the Legions there. The Dominion will fall on them like rain on parchment. We must attack.'

There was protest at that, but the High Chancellor kept order this time. 'It is a sound idea, Prefect.' Casta felt a twinge of annoyance run through him; it was the only option available to them. 'Are there any others?'

'We should send off to the other provinces to provide aid in this fight. Then, as one, we can defeat them,' another man said.

Casta nodded. It was a very good idea and one he hadn't considered. With Skyrim and High Rock at their back, they had a chance of defeating the Dominion.

Raxle agreed. 'That is a good idea. With the Emperor's permission, we shall send off messengers. We have already informed them of the coming threat, so they are likely preparing already.' He looked to Emperor Reman, who nodded quickly, looking a little uneasy about making the decision. That didn't bode well, Casta thought.

'Good,' Raxle continued, leaning back in his chair. 'Now, shall we attack, or wait?'

'That is tricky,' Casta began, before anyone could interrupt him. 'To go now might mean certain death, and weaken our entire military force. To wait… we will need the power of Skyrim, High Rock, and what is left of Morrowind's forces. I doubt Black Marsh will be ready to fight, but we can't do this alone.'

'So, we should wait?' Raxle asked.

'Like I said, that might doom us. But then, so too might a forward attack. They're both as bad as each other.' The Prefect leaned forward. 'I can't make this decision. It is up to Talos Emperor, if he will?' He looked over questioningly at the Emperor, who looked up to watch them.

He licked his lips nervously, and studied his hands. 'It is a difficult decision, Chancellors…' he stalled.

'Maybe we should make it as a whole?' A Chancellor suggested.

'No,' he snapped, looking up. 'There is no time for talk. This is my decision.'

Casta was taken aback. Reman seemed to have difficulty making a decision, yet he could control the Elder Council effortlessly. It was such a bizarre mix; it didn't instil confidence.

'We should…' The Council waited with bated breath. Allectus looked around before leaning in, talking almost silently. 'Talos?'

Reman flashed him a look before raising his voice quickly. 'We will wait for our allies, and as soon as they cross their borders in full force, we will attack the Dominion.'

A sigh of relief echoed throughout the chamber. 'A fine decision. We will stress the importance of haste, Talos,' the High Chancellor said. 'Now, with your permission?' The Emperor nodded, back in control of menial commands. 'This Council is dismissed. All hail Talos Emperor!' The Council chanted the words as Reman stood and strode from the hall, his guards following behind him. The rest of the Chancellors started filing out, but Casta ignored them, watching the space the Emperor had just vacated, is mind swirling with unpleasant thoughts. Nothing boded well…

**Please review! I'm looking forward to writing the next chapter! **


	20. Two Of A Kind

'**No, kid, not tonight, you're not that good, and I'm not that type, she's beautiful, but she's cold as ice, but that keeps me holding on… That girl, that girl, she's such a bitch, I tell myself I can handle it.' Anyone heard All Time Low. Great band. 'That Girl' is a great song. Anyway, it fuelled by sick-enhanced, coughing mind as I struggled to get this out really quickly. Honestly, this chapter was great to write. **

**The thanks: To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Glad you would vote conservative. It's fine to have an opinion about a plot point, but it was something they could fix. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Hey, thanks, I'm really pleased you liked how I got the council to bicker. Reman is a mixed personality; certainly he has the skills to be a good Emperor, but will he be? To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Glad you liked the tactical debate. Honestly, both decisions weren't all that great. Thanks everyone. **

**Anyway, so this is it. I hope it's a god chapter. Let's dive in deeper to Jon's messed up psychic! Because it is seriously messed up. Really badly. (All I can saw is I'm trying to make Alduin like he should have been.) **

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak **

'**Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin,' Paarthurnax **said, as Jon felt the cold of the day wash over him. This time they were on the great porch at the back of Dragonsreach, a vast area originally devoted to capturing dovah, _dragons_.

'Are you sure it's safe here?' Jon asked, switching to draconic easily, while gesturing up at the ancient trap that was concealed in the ceiling.

Paarthurnax glanced up before turning his attention back to Jon. 'Nid, I am not worried, Dovahkiin. Are you?'

'Why would I be worried?' Jon snapped back. These meetings always made him angry. It was hard enough getting to sleep without Ysold, but Paarthurnax always left him awake after these conversations had ended.

'You are dovah too, or had you forgotten?' The great dragon replied calmly.

'Partly,' Jon replied, sitting on the base of a pillar near Paarthurnax. 'I'm not worried.' He pulled out his dagger, which just seemed to be on his person, and started cleaning his nails. 'Is it you who chooses my outfit?' he asked irritably.

'No. You decide. It is your mood.'

Jon looked down at himself. A vul, _dark,_ plain doublet. A very dark doublet. He wore only his dagger; no sword. The plainness of his attire reminded him of Ysold, and his heart clenched. He hadn't realised how much he missed her until now, that he was without her. It hadn't been as bad before, but eleven years with the woman made you somewhat dependent.

'Zu'u krosis. You miss your hatch partner,' Paarthurnax observed wisely.

'What does that matter to you?'

'Ah, Dovahkiin, you must let go of your rahgot, _anger_, with me. Unslaad zii. Is it perhaps that you see too much of my own brother in me?'

Jon glanced up, noting Paarthurnax properly for the first time. The dragon did bear a remarkable resemblance to Alduin. _I should know; I see him every night. _Since his dinok, _death_, the World Eater hadn't left his dreams; every night he haunted him through the plains of Sovngarde. Jon didn't talk to anyone about it, not even Ysold. They were terrifying, but passed quickly once he woke. He could handle Alduin, some nights. Most though…

'Krosis. I am sorry,' Paarthurnax said, moving closer to Jon.

'Why?' Dovahkiin replied, picking out the remains of the dirt from his nails. 'It's not your problem.'

'Isn't it? He was my brother.'

Jon looked up at him with a hard stare. 'You aren't responsible for your family.'

'Dovahkiin, we both know that isn't true.'

He was right. When Jon didn't see Alduin, he saw Ulfric. It was always the same. He killed him, again, and again, and again, as he pleaded for mercy. The sos, _blood_, covered Jon's armour, but the rain never washed it off. Never.

'You can never escape your deeds, Paarthurnax. I don't need to tell you that.'

'No, indeed you don't,' the dragon agreed quietly. 'But we can't let them hold us back.'

'It's easier to let them,' Jon said softly.

'Til los fiolk. Who ever said it was easy?' Paarthurnax moved down to Jon's level, watching him steadily. 'You are stronger than you think. After my brother was defeated the first time, he never left those old heroes. They may have cast him away physically, but mentally, he never left.'

'What do you mean?' Jon asked, sitting up. He had a sinking feeling that he knew what happened.

'The old man died first. He hung himself a year after. Your ancestor, the man, was stronger. It took him years before he bashed out his head with that rock. The woman, well, some things are better left unsaid.'

Shock struck Jon's mind. They all died within a few years, and yet here he was, still defying Alduin's will, still alive…

'He killed them?'

'His revenge. You already know my brother was no mere dragon. We were the sons of Akatosh!'

'Talos, I never realised…'

'Why should you have?' Paarthurnax said. 'You were already experiencing it. They are kah, _proud,_ I think, of your defiance, and glad, that you are still frustrating my brother's will.'

'It doesn't matter. Not in the scheme of things-'

'But it does! The world will need the Dragonborn as the war clouds draw closer.'

'Why me?' Jon stood and started pacing furiously. 'Why can't someone else take over?'

'I told you to become king, Dovahkiin. You disobeyed me.'

'Maybe it was because I was tired of being manipulated!' Jon burst out, his anger boiling over. 'First Argneir, then Delphine, and now you.' He breathed deeply, wishing Ysold was here to calm him. But she wasn't, so he would have to do it himself. 'I want my own life!'

'And you have it. Men would die for the opportunity to be a hero.'

'I am dying, Paarthurnax. If not the attacks, it'll be the nightmares.' He sat again, pressing his fist to his mouth, staring at the ground, before looking up at Paarthurnax with a keen glare. 'I am not long in this world.'

'I wish you would be more optimistic.'

Jon snorted, looking away. 'A dragon wishing for something. That is indeed a first.'

'And a last, I should think,' Paarthurnax ascertained, drawing himself up.

Jon sighed. 'What do you want anyway?'

'I was going to wish you luck with the meeting. You're actions today will shape the future of Tamriel.'

Stormcloak sighed absently. 'Yes, I know. I will lead a united Skyrim.'

The dragon nodded, as the world closed in on him, crushing the air from his lungs.

'**Jon. Are you ready? Jon!' **

Jarl Jon Stormcloak jerked away, drawing his dagger and pressing it to Ralof's neck.

'Alright, Red Eagle, don't get ahead of yourself. It's just me,' he said, carefully detaching himself from Jon's grip. 'Are you ready?'

Stormcloak looked down at himself, before looking to Ysold, but she wasn't there. Her absence painfully wrestled his heart again. 'I will be,' he coughed. Alduin was playing on his mind now and proving difficult to ignore. Paarthurnax's meetings were not useful for trying to ignore the nightmares.

Mindful that he was going into court, Jon washed his luft, _face_, and pushed back his straight hair, before pulling on a clean doublet emblazed with a silver bear, his skyforge steel bracers and greaves, his dagger and a new sword forged before he left Windhelm. It was pretty; with a straight, silver guard, a supple hilt, and shining blade; but it wasn't Kodaav. It didn't feel the same on his hip, but then no sword had for years.

Jon was already tired from his near sleepless night, Paarthurnax's meetings never provided any rest, and his limbs were already aching from an earlier minor attack. He had been lucky though; it had been relatively easy, compared to the last one. It was his plan to finish proceedings here as quickly as possible, and get home, back into the care of Ysold before something worse happened.

Jon Stormcloak trudged along the corridors before he came to a door, guarded by two Nords. They inclined their heads and he passed through without a word, into another large room dominated by a long rectangular table. Behind the seats was a banner representing who would sit in each place; in addition to each of the Jarl's banner, there were also those of some of the more important Whiterun Thanes, and the High Priest of Talos, the head of the religion in the country. There were a few seats for diplomats, but Jon didn't recognise any of them save an Imperial Diplomat who shifted nervously in his place.

Glancing around Jon was pleased to spot his own banner on the King's left. That was pruzah, _good_; the High Prince would take his right, but Balgruuf had put him in a place of honour! Feeling far more disposed to cooperate with the other Nords now, Jon trudged over to his place, and sunk into the seat. His body was still stiff from the last night, and glancing around, the other Nords of a similar age didn't seem to be in any discomfit. Jon's expression soured as Alduin leapt back into his mind.

'Jarl Stormcloak.' The Dragonborn looked up to see Jarl Siddgeir Stuhn, of Falkreath, watching him. Jon stood, and with apparent displeasure, clasped the other Nord's arm. He hadn't seen the other Jarl in years, a deliberate move, but now that he was here, Stormcloak studied him intently. Siddgeir had gained weight, he had always had a fleshy build, and if memory served, he had never been the most active of men. His dark hair was braided back but his face was a light red, and his clothes tight. He wore a sword but Jon could testify as to how well he could actually use it.

'You're looking old,' Siddgeir said, a smile dancing on his lips.

'And you're looking fat.' Ralof snorted behind him and Jarl Falkreath's expression turned sour.

'Just because you can walk back in here and be all buddy-buddy with His Majesty doesn't make you better than any of us.'

'I never said that,' Jon replied coolly, dropping his arm from the hold.

'But I did,' Ralof piped in. 'Given half a chance, you'd been sucking the King's-'

'Enough, Ralof,' Jon commanded.

'Your Housecarl ought to keep his mouth shut; it might get him into some trouble one day,' Siddgeir commented darkly.

'Not if it's about you,' Ralof shot back. 'What are you going to do? Talk me to death?'

'Enough!' Jon threw his Housecarl a furious glance. 'Look, I'm not here to dig up the past.'

'Quite.' Siddgeir turned to storm off to his seat without another word, but Ralof had one last remark.

'Sid! You should drop by Windhelm some time; the dungeons are fantastic.' He smiled knowingly, and Siddgeir strode off, his face beet red. Grinning happily, Ralof turned to Jon, who was staring at him blackly.

'What? He's a pretentious prick.'

'Who I have to negotiate with in a second. Well, good work Carl Ralof, you've just fucked up the meeting before we've even started.'

'Hey, where's this come from?'

'Bad night,' Jon snapped back before he sat down. Instantly he regretted throwing off his anger at Ralof, but he did feel calmer now. He slumped against his seat and sighed. Things would be better if Ysold was here. She'd know what to do; she'd have everything arranged.

'Jarl Stormcloak.' Jon sighed quietly in annoyance before turning again.

'Jarl Winter.' Korir Winter was leaning on table by Jon's seat. His face was drawn, and pale. His bloodshot eyes revealed his own vices clearly enough, but the Stormcloaks and Winter's were often allies, ever since the first defeat of Alduin in the First Era, so they were on good enough terms. Jon flinched as the dragon came back into his mind and the bloody ground he was stumbling across last night. He could hear the screams again-

'Are you alright?'

'Huh?' Jon snapped out of the nightmarish thoughts, and back into Korir's own face. 'I'm fine.'

'You're sweating, and pale. Are you sick?'

'That must be it,' Jon said quickly.

Korir smiled thinly. 'Even the Dragonborn gets ill?'

Jon forced a laugh. 'Yeah; so he does.'

'I'll leave you to… rest. The King should be here soon anyway.' With that Jarl Korir left him alone as Alduin and the bodies entered his hahdrim, _mind_, again, battering down his resistance. He gritted his teeth, and clenched his nails so hard into his palms that they started to bleed. Red blood, speckled with silver, dripped onto the table as he wrestled with Alduin again. The World Eater's eyes ripped through his mind, raping Ysold, tearing out Alsfur's throat, but leaving Ulfgar to take up the knife that would slam into Jon's heart in just a second-

'All rise for His Majesty Balgruuf, the First of His Name, of Clan Wind-Shifter, by Talos' grace High King of Skyrim, the Jarl of Whiterun, Lord of Whiterun Hold, Marshal of the Royal Plains Armies and Defender of the Faith. All rise.'

In a flurry of movement everyone stood, Jarl and Thane alike, as the King descended the steps from his quarters, with his son behind him. His daughter followed, and another boy who quickly flitted into the shadows as soon as Jon caught a glance of him.

The King's silver hair was gleaming and tied back, and he sat in his high seat at the head of the table. His son and daughter sat after him, and so too did the other Nords at the table. He looked around at them, and Jon quickly covered the spots of blood on the table with his arm, keeping his palms out of sight.

'Welcome, nobles of Skyrim!' Balgruuf began. 'It has been some time, I know, but here we all are, united again. But there is no time for talk. I'm not going to hide the truth, so here it is; the Thalmor are going to attack the Tamriel.' The room fell into a stunned silence. With a blatant look of shock, Jon opened his palms slowly. _Paarthurnax was right. He was always right. _Any thoughts of Alduin was crushed from his mind by the golden boots of the Dominion.

Balgruuf looked at them all sadly. 'There is nothing else to say.'

'Except what needs to be said,' Jon said quietly, thinking over the news. 'Your Majesty?' The King looked completely dumbfounded by Jon's intervention but he nodded and Stormcloak stood. 'What is this silence?' He looked around at the men as his voice grew louder in suleyk, _power_. 'Do you think the Imperials balked when they heard the news? What are you? Look at yourselves!' There were some half heartened attempts, but that didn't matter. 'I for one am a Nord! I don't give a fuck about some stuck-up elf who thinks it's his birthright to take my land. They want blood? I have some for them.' Jon swiped his bloody hand through the air and his own silver speckled blood hit the table. 'But that's all they're getting from me, I promise it! So, who's ready to see how much we can get from them?' There were some murmurs. 'Who wants to see Talos standing over their golden palace?' They were some loud voices now. 'Who wants to hold their King over the promised land and see his blood soak our boots.' The Nords present roared their approval. 'Because I've waited forty years for another go at them, but this time, we'll see their capital burn. Who wants some of that?' The Nords roared their approval and nodded, drawing their daggers and watching Jon intently for the next bit. But that was it. He was finished as the energy drained from his body. Stormcloak sat, and the King stood.

'Fucking well said, I say. Let's show some them some Nordic steel, eh?'

Another roar from the crowd, and Balgruuf sat, smiling bloodily. 'Then how do we want to do it?'

'Simple,' said Brina Merilis, Jarl of Dawnstar. 'Join the Empire's attack on the Dominion. I assume you have received a message requesting aid.'

Balgruuf looked cornered suddenly. 'Not yet. How do you know they will attack?'

'What else will the Empire do, Your Majesty?' she replied frankly.

The King rubbed his temples. 'Nothing, I suppose. Aye, assume we join the Empire.'

'You Majesty, I must impose.' It was the High Priest of Talos, the Supreme Head of all religious matters in Skyrim. 'We cannot work with the Empire. Not after they outlawed Talos.' Jon sighed. The magic of his speech was wearing off now. In any case, Talos worship was a closed matter, ended years ago, and yet here he was, bringing up the past at the exact wrong time.

Balgruuf was already there though. 'The Empire have already promised to restore Talos worship as soon as we enter war. They were going to restore it anyway. After all, it was only a delaying action originally.'

'It doesn't change anything,' he said stubbornly.

'It's true. I don't want to work with the Empire,' Korir said, watching them all carefully.

'But we don't have a choice,' Balgruuf protested. 'We unite, or die.'

'Says who, Your Majesty,' Korir challenged.

The King looked at him angrily. 'Me, Jarl Winter.' Korir backed down.

'Why do we need the Empire?' Thongvor Silver-Blood asked, looking around at them. Jon watched him suspiciously; if he had decided to talk, he must have a plan.

'Because they unite everyone; it's a fact,' Jon said, looking at him. And then it was just them, watching each other.

'We can make our own alliances with the Bretons. As for the Redguards, well, they dislike the Empire, don't they?'

'No, but it is the easiest way.'

'But not the _only_ way,' Silver-Blood put in.

'Well, technically not,' Jon conceded.

'So, why _don't_ we make our own alliances? Our own Empire, perhaps?' Silver-Blood said, looking around at the other people present.

'A fine idea,' agreed one of the Thanes.

'I like it,' Korir said. The High Priest was nodding.

Balgruuf was rapidly losing control. 'The Empire needs us-'

'As they have always needed us, Your Majesty. We are the power behind the Empire, don't you agree?' He looked around at the other Jarls, who started nodding. Jon glared at them in exasperation.

'We can't do this alone,' he protested. Paarthurnax's words rang through his mind. He couldn't fail this time. 'We need to unite!'

'And we will, on better terms,' Silver-Blood agreed. 'Your Majesty, imagine yourself as Emperor of Skyrim-'

'Shut your mouth, Silver-Blood! Your tongue may catch others, but you won't have me.'

'I want nothing of the sort! I am just presenting other options,' he growled. 'That is allowed, Your Majesty.'

Balgruuf nodded, unable to fight someone who won't bite back properly. 'Fine. Shall we join the Empire, then?' No one looked committed. The King sunk back, defeated. 'Fine, then we'll reconvene tomorrow, and make the decision. I'll have my messengers draw up drafts of letters to send out.' He rose and left, leaving the other Nords in silence. Slowly, they began to filter out, talking nervously about the Dominion. Jon made his own way out, his thoughts filling his mind.

A flash of movement caught his vision and he glanced round, to see the boy he had spotted earlier leaning against a pillar, watching him intently. Jon looked at him curiously, before the boy looked away. There was something about him that made Stormcloak want to talk to him. It was a nagging feeling, and he couldn't explain it. Without consulting Ralof he strode over to him, and leaned against the pillar, crossing his arms, waiting for the boy to notice him. He obviously concentrated on one thing with intense focus, because he didn't seem to see Jon standing by him.

'Su'um ahrk morah. Why were you looking at me?'

The boy, actually a youth of sixteen, was startled, but quickly regained his composure and fixed his piercing glare on Jon. 'It's not everyday that one sees a Dragonborn.'

'Indeed not,' Jon answered, watching him. 'What's your name?'

'A poor one.'

'But one I'd like to know.'

'Nelkir White,' he answered shortly. Jon nodded; he was a bastard, like himself. That was why he had attracted his attention.

'Your father?'

'What makes you think I have one?'

'The King has no sisters.'

'He does, actually. Or he did.'

That surprised Jon. 'What do you mean?'

'He had a sister, but she died a few years ago,' he explained unwillingly. 'Not many people remember her, and those who do don't speak of her.' He was polite enough; he could have just ignored Jon's question.

'Why not?'

Nelkir turned to regard him properly. He wasn't as short as Jon would have expected, but then neither was his father, if his suspicions were correct. 'The King, my father,' (Jon nodded in confirmation of his suspicions) doesn't like to talk about her. Too many bad memories.'

Jon looked down. 'I know what you mean,' he mused.

'What do you mean?' Nelkir asked, his eyes fixed on Stormcloak.

He sighed, looking at the bastard. 'Life isn't as good as you think.'

'Tell that to someone else. I have no need of it.'

'I bet you don't,' Jon agreed, taking in his beaten expression. 'What are you doing here?'

'Where else does the King's bastard go?'

'Away, I would think. There is nothing for you here.'

Nelkir snorted. 'It's worse out there. How can a bastard survive in Skyrim?'

'The same way I did.'

The youth turned to him, his eyes quietly suspicious. Nelkir's face gave away nothing. Obviously something required of a bastard, if they were to survive. Jon had practiced the same technique all those years ago. 'What do you mean?'

'I'm a bastard,' Stormcloak admitted.

'No, you're not. You're the Dragonborn. A hero.'

'True, but I started life as a bastard.'

'But you're the Jarl of Windhelm. Jon _Stormcloak_.'

'Exactly. We bastards make the best of men.'

Nelkir shook his head in disbelief and turned around, crossing his arms and ignoring Jon until he got off from the pillar, tired of trying to help the youth. He started to walk away but he couldn't resist turning back. 'Don't let them win, Nelkir. It isn't as easy as you think.' And then he turned away. Here he was, giving in to Alduin, yet telling the boy to stand up and take the beating. The hypocrisy soured his mouth even further as he trudged back to his apartments. Now what consumed his mind was a way to beat Silver-Blood. _If only I could just discredit him. Find a way to undermine his word, and his status._ The messenger was waiting for him in his rooms.

'What's this?' Jon asked, taking the paper.

'A letter, my Jarl, from your son.'

**Well, I enjoyed writing that. But now, we get to move back onto the other side of the coin, in Nelkir. I've been waiting to push his story forward for ages, and finally we are coming up to that moment. Please review. Seriously, review. Come on, don't let me down. Your reviews are the only thing keeping Jon alive. If I get twenty for this chapter, I'll make him drink a potion that makes him cool and new. Okay, I won't. Just review, please. **


	21. Leaving Names

**Here's another chapter. This is finally going to kick off Nelkir's story, so that's good. **

**The thanks: To Alex, thanks for your review for Season Unending. Glad you like it. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Cool, I'm pleased that you thought this one was more exciting. I didn't know how popular the talk between Nelkir and Jon would be, though it does seem pretty popular. That's cool. Both families are going to come to a head next Jon chapter. Kodaav is enchanted, but that power wasn't Kodaav. Does that answer your question? Paarthy is speaking to Jon because he absorbed his soul and went to Sovngarde (so he can see those dead he linked with). To Delphine hater, thanks for the review. First off, yes, I love your reviews. Secondly, at the moment I've got more than enough ideas. That's why the POV's are choking me; I'm trying to balance them properly. But if you have ideas, feel free to give them, but like I said, I'm swamped at the moment. The Jarls are like bickering girls, it's true. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Don't you just hate Thongvor? Yep, Skyrim must join, it's true. Jon is to be pitied in the way everything he touches turns to shit. Yep, my character in Skyrim is called 'Jon Dovahkiin'. He was the basis for Jon Stormcloak, with some very minor changes, yeah. (He has the blue/silver eyes, black hair and scars though. If only I could load a picture onto my avatar, but I have no idea how.) - Cool! What do you mean set a story in my world? I think it sounds great but you need an account. If you do, I'll message you to talk about it. Sounds good; what's the story?- (They have the mines.)To Guest for Season Unending; thanks for the review. Glad you liked it. **

**My new sub-story will be out soon. You've all seen the new Dragonborn DLC right? Well, I'm writing a *much shorter than this I hope) story on it, so check it out when it comes out! Hope this is good. **

**Also, to HereLies, thank for the amazing review! Why am I crediting this again? Go check out the review for the last chapter (20). It's amazing for my ego, and actually really fun to read. **

**Nelkir White**

**Nelkir White's head was still **spinning from his conversation with Jarl Stormcloak. _'I'm a bastard too'. _He said that? Why would a bastard be allowed to inherit the Throne of Ysgramor? But despite the parts that Nelkir couldn't be sure about that, the tone had been uplifting. The fact that he had even bothered to regard him, and not with the word 'Bastard' playing on his lips was… different to say the least; Nelkir was still trying to decide what the Jarl's ulterior motive had been. It consumed his mind as he stepped out into the sunlight that covered Whiterun. Even as the King's meeting was on, so too was the weekly market. Nelkir's keen eyes could just about pick out the individual stalls from the top of the stairs that led to the palace, and everything just became clearer as he descended.

In a rush of voices, Nelkir was in the market. The sunlight shone off his golden hair, and his eyes roamed the stalls, looking for one in particular. It wasn't hard to spot, and the Bastard quickly trotted over to it, leaning against the makeshift counter, waiting for the Breton to turn around.

'This is a surprise, Nelkir,' Poyien said, before taking a quick glance behind him. White followed his eyes but saw nothing but a group of Nords.  
'Well, I was getting bored of all the stares up in Dragonsreach,' Nelkir White said sarcastically.  
Poyien never picked up on any of his sarcasm though. 'Yes, well the palace can be dull. Now,' he said, quickly moving on, 'what are you here for?'  
'I'm just looking around, I suppose,' Nelkir said moodily. 'Any replacement siblings? A new father?' he asked, making a show of looking around at the goods, which had neither.  
Poyien nodded sympathetically. 'It's always hardest for the youngest. Or the bastard.'  
Nelkir nodded, standing up from Poyien's stall and looking around at Whiterun's market. It was a fine day, with some clouds in the distance, and naturally the square outside the inn was packed with people, shouting and hawking, struggling to get the best deals for their goods.  
Poyien was a Breton of some forty years, not the typical friend for someone of Nelkir's age, but he wasn't fussy. His years in Dragonsreach had taught him that. It wasn't that he found it hard to make friends, if they didn't instantly dismiss him as a bastard, he just didn't 'seize' the opportunities, or rather that he never bothered to. In retrospect, it would have been wise to make some close friends at the time, but it was Nelkir's mistake, and now he had to live with it.  
'How's business?'  
'Fine, I suppose,' Poyien said, his eyes on something else.  
Nelkir raised an eyebrow. 'It's packed here.'  
'People don't often buy Breton goods. Especially not Nords. They don't like them.'  
Suddenly, Poyien's fleeting glances made sense. The coldness of hurt swept over Nelkir, but he didn't show it. Instead, his face became stony. 'Nords don't like bastards either,' Nelkir remarked coldly. He looked around; certainly a few of the people were glancing at him before they moved on, unwilling to shop at the stall with the bastard. In Nordic society bastards were pariahs; no one interacted with them if they could help it. Nelkir seethed with rage at the unfairness. 'I'll leave you alone,' he told Poyien icily.  
'It's not you, Nelkir-'  
'No, I understand.' That was untrue. Nelkir hated the way he was treated, even by his so-called 'friends', and he made no disguise of his feelings as he strode off, into the crowd.  
Whiterun was a massive city, built onto a hill surrounded by vast plains. It had originally been built around Jorvaskar, the mead hall of the Companions, the famous warrior group. Among its ranks were the finest of Skyrim's heroes, Jon Stormcloak had been invited as an honorary member years ago, so Whiterun was always well defended. Jorvaskar, in turn, had been built next to the Skyforge, a huge blacksmiths forge shaped like an eagle and capable of producing the legendary skyforge steel. It burned hot, hot enough to scald those who came too close and the unwary. For centuries Clan Graymane had worked it, producing weapons and maintaining it as they would. Very rarely did they make skyforge steel though, due to its complexity, the time it takes to make it and the prestige attributed to it. If there was any city that represented Nordic culture at its best, it was Whiterun. Simple, and defined by the warrior. And Nelkir hated it.

He wasn't a warrior, he was barely considered a Nord, and the dust of the plains got into his eyes. In truth he has always preferred the snow of the north and east, but he was stuck here. Or was he? Jarl Stormcloak had made some good points, even if Nelkir was unwilling to accept them at the time. He could leave his name behind and be free. The life of an adventurer would be hard, and rough, tougher than now, maybe. _Put it from your mind. You have a purpose here. _The Whispering Voice was really getting on Nelkir's nerves now, telling him what to do. He wanted to make his own choices. And that was exactly what he was going to do. His mind set, Nelkir wandered off for somewhere to think on how exactly he was going to actually escape his life.

The Battered Mare, the local tavern, was as good a place as any to do his thinking, though he didn't look forward to the stares and mutters he would receive. Nelkir strode over to it, entering into the light and heat. In his loose shirt, brown hose and high leather boots, Nelkir was well dressed for the day. Even so, the inn was hot, uncomfortably so. The fire was on full blaze even though it was undoubtedly one of the hottest days Skyrim had seen in years. Nelkir shook his head at their idiotic tendencies and walked to the bar, seating himself on a stool.

The bartender looked him over and rolled her eyes. 'Okay, what do you want, Bastard?'

'A drink?'

'Ten septims,' she replied curtly, speaking to him as little as possible.

'Ten!' he exclaimed in disbelief.

'New price,' she explained.

Nelkir glared at her, but sighed and pulled out the money. At least Father gave him enough of that, but of course not as much as Frothar got. Or Dagny.

As he paid another Nord came up to the bar and asked for a drink.

'Three septims,' the bartender told him.

Nelkir's sudden anger threatened to overcome him. 'I paid you ten though!' he burst out.

'Yeah? I said it was the new price… for bastards.'

'You can't do that,' he said, trying to stay calm.

'Hey, boy, know your place,' the other Nord said, putting his drink on the bar and turning to face Nelkir.

'But it's not my place. I'm a Nord, just like you.'

'No, you're a Bastard. Doesn't apply.'

'I'm the King's son,' Nelkir threatened.

'Exactly why you pay ten, and I pay three. Now stop talking back and get out.'

'Make me then,' Nelkir challenged, feeling ready to fight against the injustice.

'Gladly.' He looked behind him, as three Nords stepped up, one of them with a dagger. The Bastard glanced at them, fear resurfacing. It was just like with Frothar; hopeless. Nelkir got off his stool and swept past them, trying to preserve what little dignity he had left. Even so, as he stepped out of the inn, the laughter followed him and he burned with shame. Maybe it would have been better to have been stabbed the dagger; he had forgotten his sword, and had no serious unarmed martial skills, so it was the only real outcome. The pain would have been bad, but death couldn't really be that much worse than his life already.

Now that he had been thrown out Nelkir scanned the market for something to do, trying to turn his mind away, before glaring up at Dragonsreach vehemently. Father claimed to have a free kingdom, but he was a hypocrite. They were all hypocrites! Even Jon Stormcloak. He had been lying about that bastard stuff, Nelkir was sure. After all, how could one of the greatest heroes of Nordic lore actually be a bastard? He was lying.

But even as Nelkir trudged through the market, doubts started picking at his mind. Even if the Dragonborn was lying, why would he even talk to a bastard in the first place? He hadn't been rude, or derogative. He had been… understanding. Nelkir thrust the thoughts from his mind; he had no need for pity, and he didn't want to have been played. He had seen through Stormcloak's stories. They were all lies. It was stupid to even think otherwise.

When he snapped out of his musing, he found himself in front of Poyien's stall again. The Breton was watching him guiltily.

'I'm sorry for before,' he began.

Nelkir didn't say anything. He didn't have time for this. The Bastard started walking off, as Poyien called out to him. Suddenly, the Breton fell silent, which was quite unlike him and White stopped, listening behind himself without looking.

'Don't worry about the bastard, Breton. He's not even worth his name.' It was Frothar Wind-Shifter, Nelkir's brother. Nelkir had no time for him now, and he started walking away, but then Poyien began to talk.

'He's still a person, Sire. It's not fair how he's treated.'

Nelkir turned to see Frothar looking unsure, standing in front of Poyien's stall, a sword and dagger at his side, wearing a white shirt with billowy sleeves. 'He's just a bastard, Breton. There's no need to worry about him.'

'You're his brother, Sire? You should be protecting him, not hunting him.'

Frothar looked angry now. 'You want to tell me how to handle my brother? Is that it?' he asked, raising his eyebrows threatenly. He wasn't normally so aggressive, but mention of his brother always got him riled up.

'Well, Sire-'

Frothar put his hands violently on the stall. 'Then why did you say it?'

Nelkir couldn't take anymore, even if Poyien had just betrayed him. He fumed with rage to see Frothar bullying his way around those who disagreed with him. 'Hey, Brother!' he shouted, stepping forward.

The crowd quickly caught onto the smell of a fight and started stepping back, anxious to see the confrontation.

'Bastard? What are you doing?' Frothar asked, wonderingly.

'Just get away from him, Frothar. Is it not enough that everyone else hates me?'

His brother considered this, but then looked back at Nelkir. He hated being told what to do. 'Since when do I listen to you?'

'Since now.' Shit, he hadn't meant to say that. It had just come out. Frothar smiled darkly, and stepped forward, drawing his sword.

'It is about time I got to kick your arse into oblivion and back. I was waiting for the right time.' He looked around. 'No Dagny to save you this time.'

Nelkir knew he should be scared, but he wasn't. He was feeling brave, and ready. 'Come on, then. I'm sick of your shit.' He was going to lose; he couldn't beat Frothar.

His brother stepped forward and thrust forward his sword. The blade caught Nelkir's chest and red blood fell to the ground. He let out a gasp of pain and Frothar grabbed him, throwing the Bastard into Poyien's stall. Nelkir's wind was driven from his body as he slammed against the counter, but his mind quickly cleared as he heard the whistle of a sword. Launching off his right foot, Nelkir dodged to the left, lashing out with his right hand to catch Frothar's jaw. The bastard barely had time to register the lethal intent of the sword, or the fact that he had just hit his brother, when the sword swept round at his head. He ducked, and without thinking rushed forward.

With a strange sense of detachment Nelkir realised that he was about the same height as Frothar, and almost as large. With a sudden roar, he threw his brother over, into the stall. It collapsed under Wind-Shifter's weight, and fell onto of him. He let out a cry as he was buried by cloth and poles, and in a flash of instinct Nelkir kicked away his sword and pulled Frothar's dagger from his belt, pulling aside the mass of cloth before pressing the weapon to his brother's throat.

They looked at each other, both as shocked. Nelkir was surprised, and wondering what had just happened, cold fear pumping through him, as a pair of hands grabbed him and the guards took him away.

**Cool, Selina next. Please review. Keep your eye out for the new story!**


	22. An Opportune Moment

**Another Selina chapter. Stuff is moving on. As it moves on things will begin to heat up. Nothing else to say really. **

**The thanks: To DragonXander, thanks for the review! To be fair, Frothar didn't ask for the guards. They just came. Who is the voice indeed? If Balgruuf's sister is indeed Nelkir's mother, then yeah, Balgruuf has done some weirdo stuff, which may just be used against him. Who knows? I'm not ruling out anything at all. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm glad you like Nelkir; he is full of hate. Also, What do you mean (good stokes; is it just a typo?) I'm flattered by the way, about starting a writing career. I'll think about it to be sure. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Sorry it was duller (but it had to be done). The Daedric influence may earn its keep soon. Get an account quick! Sounds like a great story. Really cool. To ZoeKJ-Tazmina, thanks for the Follower and Favourite! To Bum Tickley, thanks for the review. Sounds weird writing that name. Thanks everyone for the stuff! **

**Please review! It's a Thorek chapter next. And Nelkir's trial, including some Idgrod action. All from that pretentious prick's POV. **

**Selina Black **

**Forgn came through the door **in his typical easy way, smiling a self-satisfied smile. Selina Black's face was like thunder.

'Where have you been?' she asked, coming up to him. He had been gone for a week since she came back from her meeting with the Listener, which was annoying seeing as she had been waiting to talk to him about it. Now though, she couldn't be bothered. It was old news.

Forgn, the Leader of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, ignored her internal thoughts, instead gazing around the home of the Dark Brotherhood, at the black stone pillars, constructed in the style of an Imperial Palace, before looking back at Selina. 'What, no welcome home? How about a little time in bed?' he grinned.

'That was once,' she shot back furiously. 'Don't worry though, I learnt my mistake the first time.'

'You should be more accommodating to the man who has your new contract,' he warned.

Her blood started pumping quickly, past slights forgotten. 'From the Listener?'

Forgn frowned. 'No, actually. A local one, in the manor up the street.'

'Up the street?' she repeated incredulously. 'You know that's beyond me.'

'You think?' he said, looking annoyed. 'I didn't want to give you anything too far afield seeing as you work for the Listener now. Get it?' he ended scathingly.

Selina had to admit that it made perfect sense. 'Where am I going?'

'Riverview. That big manor up in the rich district.'

'I know it,' she said, nodding. 'Target?'

'Lord Opportune. Yes, I know, what a name.' Forgn led the way into the sanctuary proper, up the huge, black marble steps and into the temple-like headquarters of the Dark Brotherhood. It was all built underground, but the Sanctuary was huge; consisting of a main hall, which led to the shrine where the Night Mother's Coffin resided, and several rooms branching off of that. It was all incredibly old, but Selina wasn't paying attention to that right now.

'The name is actually rather apt,' Forgn continued. 'It seems he takes the opportunity with other peoples money. Unfortunately for him, the man he cheated still had just enough to pay us.'

'What does he stand to gain?' Selina asked.

'Now, you see, I asked myself the same thing.' Forgn pulled out a sheet of parchment. 'The Opportune Family Tree. Guess who ordered the contract.'

Selina scanned the list. 'The cousin?'

'Right. Not exactly a happy family.'

'Why would Opportune steal money from his cousin,' she asked, surprised again.

Forgn shrugged. 'Who cares? It's just a contract.'

'To you,' Selina said. 'I like to know what I'm doing.'

'And _that_ is what makes you so difficult to work with,' Forgn sighed. 'Just get it done.'

'No tips?' she asked, smiling now, realising how stupid her request was.

'You're breaking into a fucking house,' he said, turning to her.

'Well, I'll just have to take an _opportune_ moment.' She grinned and started walking off.

'Very funny, Selina. Yeah, I know where you live remember!' he called after her, jokingly.

She shook her head and ignored him, making for the weapon room. It was small, but well equipped. Selina pulled on light leather and then covered that in a tight hose, so nothing got caught when climbing, and a light tunic. A dagger went up the sleeve of the black tunic, and one in her boot. Otherwise she would improvise if needed.

Selina left the room, tying back her hair, before climbing the ladder to the surface. It was night, and very dark, so no one was around as she hauled herself from the sewer tunnel. Selina took a moment to brush herself off, push back braid before setting off down the cobblestones.

The air was nice, not wet, but dry. There was no fog, which was slightly annoying, but it didn't matter in all honestly; she could pull off the assassination anyway. When she arrived, Selina noticed one thing; Riverview was large, and guarded by a metal fence. She looked at it distastefully; all inherited by a man who did nothing more than being born. She had done that, and even after her mother had had to be cut open. She blew out of her nose in frustration and walked up to a side of the gate. It was laced with intricate patterns; the stupid idiot was going to make it easy for her.

Selina Black was about to climb when she saw the guard patrol. She went to the ground, watching him pass, her heart suddenly racing with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He was dressed in mail and leather, and a sword hung at his side. The man was tired, bored, and by the looks of it, was having trouble seeing in the dark. _He should have brought a torch. _Selina herself had no trouble with the dark; her name was apt enough as her night vision was exceptional, which had proved useful many times already, even though she was only nineteen.

Selina waited for him to pass before climbing quickly. It had been as easy as she has anticipated. The Assassin dropped silently, hitting the ground lightly before sprinting forward, to the house itself. Her blood was pumping faster now, and fear at being discovered was rushing through her mind. She hit the wall of the manor, at the side, and huddled in the darkness. Selina was hardly out of breath from the run so she turned her attention to the wall with hesitation. Again, patterns, ridges and stupidity were going to make his death.

She started climbing, moving up the wall silently. Her hands found the holds easily, but there was a little bit of trouble when he reached the window, as the ledge was an outcrop. Selina steadied herself, breathing heavily, clearing her mind before getting her feet onto the wall and pushing off. There wasn't time for thought; she caught the ledge as she flew backwards and swung, holding herself. By now, Selina was about twenty feet from the ground (it was a huge house) and she let out a breath of relief as her hands gripped the sill tightly, before pulling herself up. It only took a quick rattle with her dagger to break the window. Her slim figure fit through easily and she dropped to the ground, silent.

Looking around, Selina found herself in a long corridor. No doubt Opportune's bedroom would be the biggest so she moved on, slowly padding through the corridors, looking for a large door. She heard footsteps, and fell against the wall. The fear was rushing back, but so too was anticipation. The guard stepped round the corner next to her cover and Selina punched his throat, catching something. He started choking and fell to the floor, blood leaking from his mouth. Selina watched him before deciding that he would be fine after the bleeding stopped; she hated to kill where it wasn't necessary, despite her occupation. As she stood she saw another guard come round the far corner. He stopped when he saw her, but quickly regained his voice.

'Hey, you! What are you doing?'

By then Selina was already running. He drew his sword but she jumped off the wall, drawing her dagger and swinging round on his back, the steel cutting through his neck. He fell, and she turned him over, slamming the dagger into his neck to stop any more noise from coming out. Selina stopped and listened, watching carefully, scared that the noise had been too loud. No one came.

The Assassin begun to walk forward, round the corner that the first guard came from, and found herself in front of the main bedroom. The door was large and intricate, just as she had expected. It wasn't locked; the master was obviously an arrogant man. She stepped into the room, just as Lord Opportune was getting ready for bed.

'I said I wanted no visitors,' he barked, not even looking at her. That annoyed Selina.

'There is no waiting for Sithis.'

'What do you mean?' he said turning, before seeing her dagger, and gender, then laughing. 'A women's going to kill me! What a joke!'

Selina's annoyance turned into anger. What a fucking idiot. She threw her dagger into his foot viciously and he fell, screaming like a baby. She couldn't even care less about noise now. Selina moved to him, kneeling by his face. 'Let us hope Sithis reserves some torment for you.' Then she drew the dagger from her boot and punched it through his temple. Selina Black didn't bother to watch him die.

When she returned to the Sanctuary, Forgn was waiting for her, with a letter clutched in his hand. 'Ah, Selina Black. Listener wants you; you're going to Skyrim.'

There wasn't even time for goodbyes.

**Well, I hope that was good. I'm looking forward to writing Thorek again. Please review guys, because, just please. Also, check out my new story; 'Dragonblood.' Hopefully that's good too! **


	23. Orlando And Rosalind

**Cool. This was fun to write. I do like writing Thorek. He'll be a lot less evil for you guys who were in uproar last time. But still, now you know what he's capable of. **

**The thanks; To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Why are you coing to England? I only write stories that catch my imagination. I gave it a brief stint on inFamous, but I got bored. I like Harry Potter, but I couldn't write it, nor any Star Wars stuff. I just use Skyrim as a way to channel sword and sandals, Game of Thrones stuff. But thanks for the advice anyway. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked Selina and the chapter. Wait, you're going to write a scene that references the Jon/Miraak fight? Well, it's not going to be what you expect at all. I think it's really cool (and I'm flattered). Could you get an account because there are bits that I need to tell you which would ruin it for anyone who is reading it in addition to this. Quickly though, that sounds really cool. I'm seriously flattered that it's taking place in my world where characters like Jon are Dragonborn (or _a_ Dragonborn- I have no idea what is going on with your story.) You need to get an account. It's really easy to do. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Glad you liked the Assassin skills. Thanks everyone. **

**Okay, here we go. We're past two hundred reviews! **

**Oh full marks to the person who gets the title.**

**Carl Thorek Silver-Blood **

**The armour was impressive. It **consisted of silver mail, with the same metal covering the pauldrons and steel that protected his upper chest. As with most armour in Skyrim, the sword arm, (in Thorek's case, his left) was armoured in a overlapping plates that ran down to his hand, with a triangle of steel that covered the top of his sword hand. The chainmail fell to his knees, with high greaves and a section that stuck out just in front of his knee caps to protect them. He didn't wear a helm, it would spoil the ladies show, but he kept his own sword and dagger, both conveniently in silver already, at his side. Thorek knew he cut a striking figure as he strode into the court in front of the King, confident and assured. He looked around, noting the area and looking for potential threats before turning his attention to the real show; the trial.

The bastard boy stood in the middle of the room, looking just unimpressive as Thorek was impressive. All the Jarls and nobility of Whiterun were gathered to see the trial of the Jarl's son. It was looking to be quite an event. The room knelt as the royal party entered and Thorek led the King to his throne, before taking his position behind him, leaning against the wall, relaxed. He noticed the various Carls staring at him resentfully and he gave a nod, smiling knowingly. They turned away in disgust.

The King's Steward called the court to order and Balgruuf leaned forward.

'Nelkir White.' He uttered the last word in a snap, as if he was ashamed to even speak it. _He should be given a fucking medal. The cantankerous sod managed to bed more than one woman, even if his wife is quite the prize. _She was sitting next to Balgruuf, and looked fine even as she did so. Thorek smiled; it turned out he had a better seat than he originally thought.

'You have been accused of attacking the Crown Prince, and causing him serious harm. What say you?' Balgruuf continued.

'Not guilty.' _The boy looks frightened_, Thorek noted.

'Right.' Balgruuf looked angry at that. 'Let's call the court to order. The facts first, before we hear the first witness testimony.'

His Steward began to speak but Thorek didn't bother to listen; the outcome didn't affect him. _But I bet the boy can remember every word. _The first witness was called but it was dull stuff. He just talked about how he saw the bastard attack the Prince with a dagger and so on, and so forth. Thorek sighed and shifted. Standing behind a King is hard work. He decided to have a look round again, trying to make the time fly, but it didn't work: he was stuck here.

**The court took a long **time, but the verdict wasn't a surprise.

'I, High King Balgruuf the First, pronounce you guilty of assault and intended murder in this fair court of law.' The word 'fair' brought a smile to Thorek's lips. Looking around, everyone had different definitions for what the King thought was fair; it seemed they all agreed that this court was anything but.

Thorek looked down again at the boy. He looked scared, and betrayed. Silver-Blood couldn't help but sympathise with him. Being a bastard is bad enough, but an exiled one is worse.

'You will be executed at dawn. This court is dismissed. The planned moot of the Jarls with take place tomorrow instead.' The King got up and swept from the room. Thorek was left standing by the throne, stunned. _Execution! That wasn't just. The boy was probably innocent anyway._ Thorek shot a concerned glance over at Nelkir, suddenly worried for him. He was shaking as guards pulled him roughly away. The Carl looked around and in a snap decision rushed forward.

'Get off of him,' Thorek commanded as he strode forward. 'I'll take him.'

The guards looked angry. 'On whose authority?'

'The King's.' Thorek looked at them patronisingly, with an easy smile. He knew that unnerved them.

'Right,' they mumbled, before handed the bastard to him. _They should have put up more of a fight, _he reflected, disgusted. From now on he would be choosing the guards. Thorek turned his attention back to the boy. He was watching the Housecarl closely. Silver-Blood grabbed the boy's shoulder and dragged off him outside the court freeing him when they reached the outside corridor.

'Tough luck, bastard.'

The boy looked suddenly resentful. 'Don't call me that.'

'Why not? It's your name.'

'My name is Nelkir!'

'I don't care,' Thorek said, shaking his head disdainfully. The boy turned away but Thorek stopped him. 'Where do you plan to go?'

The boy turned back, his eyes dark. 'Away?'

'In a palace full of guards? I can see now why you were captured,' he said. The boy looked a little unsure, and hurt.

'What do you want from me?'

'Some bloody gratitude would be nice.'

'Why?'

'Because I'm going to save your arse.'

'What do you mean?'

'I'll talk to the King, and get exile for you instead.' The bastard looked wary, waiting for a catch or trick. 'Would you like that?'

He nodded, his eyes full of hope. That just annoyed Thorek, but he nodded anyway. 'I'll talk to him. Until then,' Silver-Blood rubbed his forehead, pushing back his hair; 'get to a cell. I'll see him now.'

The boy looked dumbfounded for a second time that day. 'Really?' he asked weakly.

'You have my word.'

The bastard nodded, looking a little sick. Suddenly Thorek felt a presence next to him. He turned, moving in front of the bastard subconsciously, before coming face to neck with Jarl Stormcloak.

_He's fucking huge! _Thorek wiped the surprise from his face. 'What do you want?'

Stormcloak raised his eyebrow. 'Is that how you greet all the Jarls, Carl?'

Thorek shrugged. 'Just the ones I don't like.'

Jarl Stormcloak's face turned dark. In truth, Silver-Blood was actually a supporter of the Dragonborn; he had played many games in his youth, fighting dragons. He tried to repair the meeting.

'My apologies, my Jarl. I acted rashly. I actually admire you greatly.' Shit, he sounded like a kiss-up now.

Stormcloak ignored him. 'The boy? What are you doing with him?'

'Nothing, my Jarl-'

'I'll take it from here. Leave us,' he commanded.

Thorek was outraged. He was going to help the boy, and here he was taking slack from Stormcloak. He nearly spat out a scathing reply, but he held it in. 'My Jarl.' Thorek inclined his head, nodded at the boy, who looked guilty for not defending him, and then strode off in search of the King, leaving Stormcloak and the bastard to enjoy each other.

Thorek was fuming as he made his way through the corridors. His blood was pumping through his body rapidly as he tried to still his feelings. Now that he had promised to secure the boy exile, Thorek became a little uneasy about what would happen if the King didn't agree. He would be able to fight the case better than most men, but even so; the King was a stubborn man.

Silver-Blood made for the royal apartments, striding in quickly, past the guards, and into the King's private dining room. The family were just sitting down to a light lunch, which made Thorek feel sick. This King who was talking with his children, laughing, had just condemned a boy to death. In different circumstances he would have relished the chance to see another man die, but the bastard was just a boy.

'Your Majesty, a word if I may?'

Balgruuf looked up and nodded. 'Follow me.'

The King led Thorek into his study, next to the dining room, and closed the door. 'What is it?'

The Carl looked around to check the doors were closed; it wouldn't do to challenge the King in public. 'I think you made the wrong decision to execute the boy.'

The King looked annoyed, and slightly angry. 'Which boy?'

Thorek stared at him, shocked. 'Your son.'

'The bastard? He's not my son.'

'Just because he's a bastard doesn't make him any less your own kin.'

'Don't challenge me, boy! A Housecarl has his place.'

'And so does justice. This court seems bereft of it.'

The King's eyes glimmered with rage. 'What are you saying?' he spat. Their voices were getting louder, and Thorek glanced at the door.

'He deserves exile, if anything,' Silver-Blood said, moving forward.

'Oh, does he now? You make the decision, I presume.'

'Well no, but-'

'To disobey those of royal blood is punishable of death,' Balgruuf reminded him.

'But those who have royal blood are protected from execution by the law.'

'His is bastard blood, no more.'

'But it is still blood. He is human, more so, in fact. He never chose to be a bastard.'

'You will not say another word, Carl Silver-Blood,' Balgruuf warned, but Thorek ignored him.

'If it's anyone's fault, it's yours!' The room fell silent. Thorek knew he had gone too far, but he didn't want to back down. He stood resolute.

'Out,' the King whispered.

'I thought I served a King, not a coward,' he whispered, disgusted.

Balgruuf moved forward, but stopped, stunned. His eyes were unreadable.

Thorek inclined his head and strode from the room. The royal family looked at him curiously as he moved past them and out, into the corridors of Dragonsreach. Once there, Thorek ran his hands through his hair, breathing heavily. That had gone badly. _If I had handled it a little smoother, I could have convinced him. Ah shit,_ he thought, as regret washed over him. _The world is hell anyway; I just did the boy a favour. _

Thorek noticed movement on his left and he turned to see a young woman there, a little older than him with a pale, sharply defined face, black hair and deep dark green eyes. She was looking at him, a strange expression on her face. It was a mixture of pity, curiosity and something else he couldn't identify. It annoyed Thorek.

'What?' he asked, brutishly.

'You shouldn't question the King, as his Housecarl.'

'What do you know of it?' She didn't know, and Thorek wasn't inclined to tell her.

'More than you apparently.'

Thorek put his hands on his hips, looking down at his boots with a confident smile on his face, before returning his gaze to her. 'Look, Daddy's bedtime stories are not knowledge, hence the use of "story".'

Her nostrils flared. 'Oh yeah, because I was just waiting for you to sweep me off my feet,' she shot back sarcastically.

'Don't worry Love, I wouldn't touch you with a six foot lance.'

'Are you implying something?'

'For those quick enough to catch on.'

'Lucky I win the Newdawn races.'

Thorek leaned against the wall, studying her with interest. 'Okay, what am I doing wrong, Princess.'

She looked him over critically, ignoring sarcasm in 'Princess'. 'You're standing incorrectly.'

Thorek laughed. Princess flushed a deep red, but Silver-Blood regarded her in a new light. 'What's your name?'

'Idgrod.'

Thorek nodded. 'Idgrod Ravencrone? I remember you from the hall. I helped you up.'

'Obviously a rare moment of chivalry for you,' she remarked.

That annoyed Silver-Blood a little. 'Don't push me.'

'Those who are chivalrous wouldn't _get pushed_,' she reprimanded him.

'It wasn't like that. It was-' he corrected.

'Being arrogant,' she said, raising her eyebrows. 'Evil?'

Thorek took a deep breath, thinking carefully, angry. He was about to lash out but then he saw her watching him, waiting for his reply. There was something about her that stayed his hand. 'Perhaps.' He walked past her, and leant against a wall, trying to contain his anger. 'Okay, then. Teach me how to be the perfect Carl.' He smirked, but she didn't catch the sarcasm, or at least didn't respond to it.

Idgrod swept past him, spinning stereotypically. 'You have to rescue fair maidens, and-'

'Wait a second, darling,' he said, holding up his hands. 'You want me to fight dragons?'

She turned to him, smiling, with a glint in her eye. 'Why else would they have come back?'

'To kill Carls stupid enough to fight them,' he sneered. 'But obviously while attempting to rescue a maiden,' he added with another smirk.

'What's so stupid about that?' she asked, frowning.

Thorek let out a bark of laughter. 'Well, let's just say all maidens are not Skyrim's strong suit.'

'Is that a crack against women?' she said, coming up to him. For a second Thorek was almost scared by the look in her eye.

He stood up, about half a head taller then her. 'No, it's a crack against _Skyrim_ women. Get it?' he said, turning his head in such as way as to suggest she was the stupid one.

'No matter,' Idgrod said, brushing it off. 'As a Carl, you have to be patience, and respectful, but strong. You have to0 look out for those weaker than you.'

'How do you know I don't do that?'

She snorted. 'You? Right,' she said sarcastically. That hurt; Thorek was almost tempted to tell her about his defence of the bastard boy, but then he didn't want to. He wanted to earn his merits himself, without drawing up any excuses.

Instead, he chose his next words carefully. 'I think… you are underestimating who I am.'

Idgrod's smile fell from her face. 'You know, I think there is more to you Silver-Blood. I really do.' She bit her lip, before making a decision. 'With your leave, Lord Housecarl.' She curtsied and left him without waiting for a reply, leaving Thorek very much dumbfounded.

**Please review! Balgruuf does not like Nelkir. Thorek is kind of a good guy. And Blade Agent99, get an account now! That's an order. **


	24. Those Little Things

**Sorry this took so long. It was weird to write. I'm moving Ulster on to Skyrim because I have some things planned there. It's getting quickly tedious to write in Alinor, personally. Also, I wasn't going to do this before, but I got a**_** lot**_** of people who wanted to see a conversation between Jon and Nelkir, so I wrote it. It was fun to do, and hopefully will build stuff up that I need to be built up. **

**The thanks: To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked it all. As for Ulfric, well I would have liked more time to write him, seeing as I suddenly gained ideas after he was killed off, but it was the right decision. He needed to die so Jon could spread his wings! In any case, he'd probably be dead of old age right now. (People in my version of Skyrim only really live to 55-60.) Well, I'm honoured that you want to meet me, but I agree, no idea how we'd do it. England's a cool place to visit, when it's not raining. Which is pretty much never (it's raining now.) To DragonXander, thanks for the review! I really pleased you like Thorek; he is a great character to write so the more fan support he gets, the better. As for Balgruuf; who knows? You were the reason the POV is in the view it is, so I hope you enjoy it. To Blade Agent, thanks for the review! Glad you liked the interaction between the two. Well, if you do get an account, I'd be really excited to hear about your story. As for having a character in my series; that sounds intriguing. And to Guest, reading Season Unending, thanks for the reviews. I'm glad you like it. Anyway, thanks everyone. I messed up my emails so if I missed anyone out, I'm sorry. **

**Anyway, hope it's good. Remember the forum and poll for favourite character. **

**Carl Ulster Stormcloak **

**Carl Ulster Stormcloak stood by **a building in the middle of Alinor, watching the High Elves pass him by. He looked around with deep, dark, almost black, grey eyes, like his brother, waiting.

'It's all set up.' Clavicus Vile appeared next to him without a sound, but by now Ulster had gotten used to it, and he didn't even flinch.

'How am I supposed to do it again?' he asked, still annoyed about this whole setup.

Vile looked around before beckoning Ulster closer. The Nord reluctantly shifted his position, and the Daedric Prince started whispering. 'It has to look natural. I can't help you; the King's men are watching you, remember. In this case, I am gone.'

'As always,' Ulster muttered, watching Vile disparate in the shadows of the alley next to him. He looked around, breathing heavily, grinding his teeth. The first place to start would be an inn, but in Alinor they didn't have them. _Elves_, Ulster growled, before beginning to walk forward. Vile had returned the elven form; he would be able to enter one their 'lounges'; basically a poncy word for fancy inn. He hated Elves, but Windhelm was more important.

There was one down the street, near the Palace, made of white marble. The windows glittered and a doorman waited outside, dressed in long, flowing white robes with an expression of permanent distaste on his face. Ulster approached him confidently, fixing an expression of intense disregard.

'Let me in,' he said. The other Elf regarded him curiously, and for a second Ulster was afraid he had overdone the arrogance, but then the guard inclined his head.

'Of course, my Lord.' He moved aside and Stormcloak stepped in. A thick, hot fog slammed into him and a rich spicy smell assaulted his senses. He coughed and looked around at the Elves, reclining on soft seat and sofas, or at tables, talking as they sipped wine. It was clearly only the rich and powerful here, and Ulster's insides burned. He had spotted a crippled Elf earlier, being thrown out of the city; nothing imperfect belonged in Alinor. Yet, here they were, eating, drinking and lording it up. Disgust rang through Ulster; it wasn't what a leader was supposed to do. He lived for the people, not the other way around. Stormcloak wasn't sure how his nephew was ruling, but it didn't matter; he was the rightful heir, by law and birth, and Jon East was the usurper. He would do things properly when he ascended to the throne.

Ulster felt a presence next to him, and remembered that he had to look natural, and try and coax some information out of some elves about a plot against the king. Ulster had no idea how far Vile was manipulating things, but it was sure to be fairly obvious. He took a glance around and noticed that there was a reserved area, with a group of elves sitting around a beautiful wooden table. There was no doubt about it; if Vile had any agents here plotting against the King, these were it. Ulster wondered how the Daedric Prince was orchestrating these plots, before he remembered the hundreds of fanatic followers willing to kill themselves at a moments notice for him. It would be easy enough to order then to hatch a plot to assassinate the Elven King, even if it was a suicide mission.

Stormcloak strode over to the elf guarding the stairs and nodded his head up in the direction of the table. He smiled, and shook his head. Ulster was taken aback, but covered his shock quickly; _even to a damn noble they still think they're better than everyone else! _Ulster thought quickly and the solution came to him in a flash.

'You misunderstood me. I've something to show you,' he said, disguising the nod as an arrogant means of trying to get the guard to follow him.

'Why?' the Elf asked, watching him carefully. Ulster made his face go blank.

'Disturbance. There's been a fight.'

The guard looked at him carefully before nodding. Stormcloak quickly strode away, glancing around quickly for a secluded area. He spotted the restrooms and made for it, beckoning for the guard to follow.

They burst into the room and the guard drew his sword, looking around for anything before lowering his weapon and looking at Ulster with a confused expression.

'There's no one here?'

Ulster leapt forward, slamming the Elf's head against the wall. He grabbed the hair and did it again, cracking the skull. Blood soaked the Elf's platinum hair, and Stormcloak stepped back, careful to avoid getting bloody. He looked down and nodded, satisfied, before turning away and exiting the restroom, removing his gloves which were speckled with golden droplets of blood.

With a deep breath Ulster fixed a disdainful smile to his face and strode to the private area, up the steps and to the table.

'Mine if I join you?' he asked. They looked unsure, but Ulster knew what they wanted. 'Vile is all knowing.' They relaxed visibly and ushered him in.

'You understand the plan,' one of them asked.

'I'm here to serve his glory,' Ulster replied, trying to deflect the fact that he had no idea what the plan was.

They nodded, as if nothing was amiss. Obviously those who joined the cult were too stupid and indoctrinated to see beyond a person's exterior. It was fine by Ulster though, and he let relief, and anticipation, flow through him as he settled in to listen.

'The first team will create the distraction. It will have to be big, possibly a full-on revolution.' Ulster couldn't help but let a look of disbelief come over his face as he listened to their dreadful planning. It would be suicide! But he didn't need a working plan, just evidence that could implicate them.

'We'll strike at midnight; you each have plans that detail your route. Aberon, you have the honour of assassinating the King.'

A handsome Elf inclined his head. Ulster eyed him curiously. _It would be his plan that will provide the evidence I need. _

'May the Lord Clavicus Vile be with us always.' There was murmured assent and then the meeting broke up. No one questioned Ulster; they quickly went their separate ways, but Stormcloak stuck to Aberon, following him as he exited the lounge. He would only have one chance, if he was going to do this properly.

'Wait a second. I just wanted to talk to you, brother,' Ulster said, halting Aberon.

'How can I be of assistance?'

Ulster moved in closer to Aberon. 'The plan. I need to talk to you about it.'

'You have your own. You have no need of mine,' Aberon said, drawing himself up.

'Actually I do. Vile came to me in a vision, and said it was my role.'

'He came to me as well, as he does everyone,' Aberon said, becoming angry. 'We all have a role. Some better than others,' he said smugly.

Ulster could feel his rage, and frustration building. 'It is _my _role.'

'No, it's not.'

'I've had enough. Give it to me!'

Aberon drew a dagger suddenly and thrust forward, but Ulster interposed his arm and the weapon sunk in deep. He gritted his teeth, whipping up his arm, pulling the steel from Aberon's grip, kicking the elf back. Stormcloak drew the dagger out and slammed it into cultist's throat. Aberon let out a strangled yell as the people walking the street watched in disbelief before a wave of fear rose up from the crowd. Ulster ignored them though; he ripped through Aberon's person until he found a bound roll of parchment, wrapped in leather. Stormcloak cut the bind with Aberon's dagger and scanned the elvish content. He had learnt the language years ago, part of Vile's teaching, and smiled, satisfied as a pair of hands grabbed his shoulder. A force hit his head and he fell into blackness.

**Nelkir White**

**Jarl Stormcloak started walking, putting **a hand on Nelkir White's shoulder to steer him in the right direction. He led him through the corridors of Dragonsreach without a word until they came to his apartments, and he let go of Nelkir in the main living room.

Jarl Stormcloak turned to face him, his eyes penetrating deeply. 'I'm sorry.'

Nelkir shrugged. The original fear had subsided to bitter regret for his fate. 'Hopefully the sword will be sharp.'

'I actually think Balgruuf will use a noose.'

Nelkir looked at him, frowning. That wasn't all that surprising. 'I guessed as much.'

Stormcloak regarded him carefully, looking disturbed slightly. 'But he's your father?'

'In name. Nothing more.'

Jarl Stormcloak waved his hand. 'Please, call me Jon. You won't be alive long enough to use it in public anyway.' The fear, and disgust for the Jarl surged up through Nelkir, but Stormcloak too looked suddenly pained. 'I didn't mean it like that. My pardons… Nelkir.'

The Bastard nodded, the emotions still coursing through his body, and looked away, going to the window. 'It doesn't matter; nothing really matters now.'

Suddenly, Jon was at his side, his hand grasping White's shoulder in an iron grip. 'Nelkir, when a man stops fighting, he's already dead,' he said, steel in his tone. Nelkir wanted to believe him.

'But I'm not a man; I'm a bastard.'

'What did I say earlier? All bastards are men; we have to be.'

That piqued Nelkir's interest. 'You said you were a bastard. How can I believe that?' His tone was harsh, even disrespectful, but Stormcloak didn't get angry. Instead, he sighed.

'Do you want a drink?' he said, moving to a cabinet in the corner.

'I hate ale, and mead. I just drink it to make an impression.'

Jon smiled at him; a genuine smile. 'So do I. My wife hates the stuff as well, but my eldest downs it like there's no tomorrow.' He looked happy for the first time since arriving, lost I memory as he rummaged in the cabinet. 'I was actually talking about wine.'

Nelkir nodded, but didn't smile. 'I'm alright with that.' He still didn't trust Stormcloak's intentions, but he had a sudden, burning desire to find out more. 'You love your family?'

Stormcloak pulled out a bottle of wine, and two glasses, and poured them silently. 'That's a vey unusual question. Not one I normally answer.'

'But how did you marry? Bastard's are shunned. No women would marry one.'

Stormcloak turned to Nelkir, his face hard. 'No, they don't.' He stepped forward, suddenly intimidating. 'But who says you're a bastard?'

That was a stupid question, and it made Nelkir angry. 'The King.'

'Then leave. I left mine behind.' He paused. 'Nelkir, it's not names which define us, but who we are. Don't let your surname dictate your life.'

'But yours does!' Nelkir protested.

'But only because I want it to.'

White knew what he was getting at. 'You want me to leave it.'

'I want you to move on. I don't care what happens to the name,' he said, bluntly. 'That's it; you just let the name control you.'

Nelkir realised that he had a point, and looked down angrily, annoyed at having been made to see reason.

Stormcloak obviously didn't pick up on his inner turmoil and handed him a glass of wine before going to a chair and sitting, looking stiff. Nelkir noticed it.

'Why do you look tired?'

The Jarl turned cold suddenly, and he regarded Nelkir icily. 'It's not your business.'

The Bastard was ready to fight back, but it was true; it was none of his business. He had misjudged how open the Jarl was to questioning. Instead he moved on. 'What was your father like?'

Jon looked up again. 'These are very personal questions,' he pointed out.

'I think they might help me with my own.'

The Jarl regarded him carefully. 'What do you want to know?'

'I read Ulfric as a tyrant. He murdered the High King and enslaved Skyrim's people.'

Jon looked angry, very angry, but his eyes softened when they reached Nelkir's. 'My Father… was a man of the people. He lived for Skyrim, he bled for it. He was honourable, in his own way, but fierce, and quick to anger. He would have been a great king, if he hadn't been one. Does that answer your question?'

'As a Father?'

'You want to know what my childhood was like?' Nelkir nodded. Jon stared at him, as if trying to divulge his true intent, before speaking carefully. 'Like yours.'

'What about your family?'

Again, a pause. 'My mother tried, and my father wasn't there.'

'But when you met him, Father to Son?' There was a pause, in which the Jarl looked into Nelkir's eyes, his stare intense.

'He tried.'

There was a sudden knock on the door, and Jarl Stormcloak stood, moving to it. It opened to reveal Elisif Kingsblood, Jarl of Solitude. Jon's Housecarl stood behind her.

'Elisif,' Stormcloak said. 'What do you want?'

'As blunt as ever, Jon,' she replied, smiling. 'May I come in?'

He nodded, and stepped aside. She walked in, graceful as ever, making Nelkir avert his eyes nervously. Elisif was about thirty now, but as gorgeous as she had been at twenty. Her hips moved with an intoxicating motion, and her eyes shined, while her lips drew attention when they moved. Beauty was a powerful tool, Nelkir observed.

'Oh.' Elisif had just noticed White, and stepped back a little. She looked at Jon. 'Is this-'

'The same,' he replied, sitting on his chair next to a round table.

'The Stormcloak manners are as astute as always,' she said, smiling and sitting. Another Nord followed her in, presumably her husband. _Lucky sod, _Nelkir thought. He had heard that they already had a son and daughter.

The Nord regarded Nelkir dismissively. 'Why is a bastard here? Particularly this one?'

'Because I brought him here,' Jon snapped.

'You Stormcloaks hold strange company,' he said, eyeing the Jarl's Housecarl as well.

'And loyal company, Aenar,' he replied. 'You would do well to remember that.'

The other Nord nodded, sitting back; he understood what the Jarl was implying. It was up to Elisif to play peacemaker.

'That's not why I came here, Jon. The King's postponed the next meeting for a few days.'

Stormcloak's face gave away nothing. 'Why does that matter to me?'

'Jon, you want Skyrim to join the Empire just as much as I do. Why else give that speech?'

Stormcloak rubbed his forehead. 'Elisif, we must unite. But I don't care how we do it.'

'But Silver-Blood won't let us,' Aenar said. 'If he rallies enough support now, I think we may be looking at the beginning of the end.'

Jon didn't answer now. He just watched him, until Kingsblood began to shift uncomfortably. Again, Elisif leapt in.

'We can't let Silver-Blood have his way! He'll ruin Skyrim.'

'Will he? I don't think he has the support, or skill,' Stormcloak said dismissively.

'You would be a fool to disregard Thongvor Silver-Blood so readily, Jarl Stormcloak,' Aenar warned.

'I think not. Is that all?'

Elisif looked deflated. 'I suppose you have a plan,' she said wearily.

Stormcloak said nothing, but instead stood up and opened the door. 'I'll see you at the moot.'

Elisif obviously knew that this was all she would get out of Jon, so she smiled and glided out, her husband following with a cursory nod in Stormcloak's direction. And then they were gone.

To Nelkir's surprise, Jarl Jon turned to him. 'What do you think?'

'I think you would be making a big mistake to underestimate Thongvor Silver-Blood,' Nelkir White told him.

Stormcloak didn't reply.

**See, the next Jon chapter is going to be fantastic to write. It'll be up in two short chapters (which will come out much quicker than before) **


	25. Just An Illusion

**Hope you guys had a good Christmas! Please review! **

**The thanks: to Delphine hater; I'm glad you liked the conversation between the two of them. They are both bastards; it's a common ground shared by few people. Ulster isn't evil, just as you said, misguided. You should get a private account. Silver-Blood just hates the Imperials. It's that simple really. Oh I understand. Well, I'll think about it, but I'm not sure. We'll see. The Ulfric/Alea thing in Sovngarde might be cool. I think I might add a funny dream of Jon's that I can put in my other story 'Dragonblood.' If I do, I'll tell you. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! You don't know how much I appreciate compliments to my characters. I'm really pleased you can relate to them, because that way you can feel for them. They're all good and bad in several ways, mostly. I'm pleased you like that. I'm glad you like the glimpses into Jon's past. It's something I may explore one day, in a different story with Ulfric and Alea, but until then, I guess it's a (hopefully) interesting mystery. I did want to play on the fanatical aspect of Daedra worship (and indeed any religion). I'm a Christian too, but by the very loosest terms possible. That is, I've never been to church and I don't believe a word of the Bible, but I believe in God (though I don't know why), so yeah. Just. Thanks for the reviews! Hopefully that's everyone. **

**Here we go. More Thorek and Idgrod. **

**Idgrod, the Younger **

**Idgrod was walking through a **long stone hall. A massive throne, dark and foreboding, waited for her at the end. At least, she thought it was waiting for her. But with every step she took forward Ravencrone felt less and less confident. By the time she reached it, Idgrod was sure it wasn't meant for her. It was empty though.

As she took a step up to the dias, a figure appeared on it, shifting and swirling. Idgrod hesitated, before moving forward. She swept him aside, and he disappeared; just an illusion. A noise, a cackle, sounded behind her and Idgrod turned, curious, not scared. But it was no one; everything was just an illusion, even the stone as it shifted beneath her feet. Suddenly a roar, very real, sounded outside the hall; a cry of pain, and loss. It shivered through her body, sending cold through her mind. It was the roar of the silver dragon.

**Where was he? He was **supposed to be here a quarter of an hour ago! Idgrod Ravencrone II looked around wildly, staring up the corridors before returning to her room, and sitting on the bed, looking at the floor angrily. She heard footsteps on the corridor and rushed to the door, but it turned out to just be another guard.

Idgrod bit her lip and stared at her wardrobe darkly, as if it had done something to offend her. Suddenly, there was a heavy tap at the door, more a pounding, and she rushed to it, composed herself, and opened it to one Carl Thorek Silver-Blood.

'Where have you been?' she began angrily, putting her hands on her hips. 'Carl's keep their words.'

He grinned, but his gorgeous grey eyes betrayed his frustration. 'Calm down, love. The King needed me. I can't exactly;' he brushed past her into the room; 'abandon my duty.'

'No,' Idgrod frowned, 'but you should have sent me a message.'

'And how strange would that look? The Lord Housecarl sending a messenger to a lady.' He looked at her, shaking his head. 'Think again.'

Idgrod flushed, but retorted angrily. 'You still should have done something!'

Thorek sat on her bed, stretching out his legs, before looking at her, a smile playing on his lips. 'Have I ever told you that you look sexy when you're angry?'

She flushed again; this wasn't going to way it was supposed to. 'Just be quiet, alright,' she snapped. Secretly, the half-compliment made her extremely pleased.

'Look, darling, I'm just here for the ride. We get to down to this, or not at all.'

'Patience,' she said, walking to her wardrobe. She had no idea what she was doing.

'-is overrated,' Thorek finished.

'No, it's a social skill.'

'The Lord Housecarl does not need to be patience,' he said, making a gesture with his hand.'

'Then what are you doing when you stand next to the King all day?'

'Trying to get a look at his daughter,' Thorek said, smiling. Disgust rang through Idgrod, but he noticed her look and rolled his eyes. 'Patience, yes. Good enough for you, love?'

Idgrod leaned against the wardrobe, rubbing her forehead while Thorek pushed back his hair, running his fingers through its fine length. 'Do you have to do that?' she asked, annoyed. He did it almost everytime she had seen him.

'What, look good?' he grinned. 'It's a task,' he admitted, 'but worth it when pretty young ladies like yourself notice.'

'I wasn't noticing,' she said, drawing herself up haughtily.

'Then why did you mention it?' He had her and she knew it. Idgrod cursed him and quickly changed the topic.

'What am I doing now?'

'Looking sexy,' Thorek said. Idgrod stared at him, annoyed by his candour and he looked back at her, flashing an easy smile.

Her face was definitely red now. 'I'm standing up,' he told him. 'You're sitting down. I'm a lady, and you are a stupid man. What should you do?'

'How am I supposed to have a fucking clue, love?'

'Stop cursing. It ill befits you.'

He looked suddenly angry. 'I think I know what fits me,' he said, standing.

'What, being a dick,' she told him fearlessly. He stared at her, and for a moment she was afraid of the look in his eyes, but then he smiled again, forcedly, and it was gone.

'I need to offer you a seat,' he said, taking one in his hand, and pulling it over to her.

Idgrod watched him wearily before sitting. 'That was good,' she said softly, before staring at him, still a little scared.

Thorek sat again, his eyes fixed on her, his expression hard. 'What?' he said brusquely after a long pause.

'It isn't your job to scare ladies,' she answered.

Silver-Blood exploded. 'Well you know what, maybe it is? Maybe that's all I'm good for! I'm the fucking Housecarl, I'm scary alright? If you haven't grasped that yet, then it's about time you did. The world isn't fairies, and ponies; it's death, and blood, and evil. Men beat their wives.' He looked ready to stop, but then he turned to face her, stepping closer. Idgrod was ready to fight back, but he didn't do anything except squat to her eye level; 'and you will never be Jarl,' he said nastily. 'Why? Because you're a women. Get over it already.' And with that, he strode out of the room.

Idgrod stared out after him, shocked by his sudden outburst, and vulnerable. Her suppressed emotions rushed back up about the earlier dream and she started crying before she could stop herself. If Thorek heard her tears, he didn't come back.

**Well, I really do enjoy writing Thorek. Idgrod's dreams are far more important than you originally think. In reality, I'm telling you the whole story through them, so hopefully you'll start trying to unpack them. Or not. Anyway, please review! The next chapter for 'Dragonblood' will be out soon, and Happy New Year! **


	26. The Last 'Stormcloak'

**Quick note. I changed the name of Lairds to Theyns. It just sounded better. **

**The thanks: to Delphine hater; well, it will be split into three parts. The first will only last about ten more chapters. I'm thinking this story will last for about 90 chapters. Also, I'm not going to tell you the end. Where would be the fun in that? Nope, I'm not giving anything away at all. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! There is definitely a divide there. They both have points. Thorek is certainly more realistic, but Idgrod's vision is much better. Anyway, glad you liked it. To CoreOfADoll, thanks for the Story to everyone. I think I got everyone, but I've been busy so I'm sorry if I missed you out. **

**Long time in the coming. This chapter is slow, but I needed to introduce some new characters. The next one is a Jon chapter, and I've written it so if you review, it'll be out very soon! (Please, review. Please?) Hope you had a good Christmas and New Year! **

**Also, a massive hand to HereLies for an amazing editing job. (This chapter was pretty bad (or worse) before it was edited). Thanks again, HL. **

**Thane Tor Blackmoore **

**Word came in halfway through **the day; banners had been sighted on the horizon. The Thegn's banners. At first Sonjia had been paralysed with worry; after all, why else would the Thegn visit if not to say that their son had been killed in battle? Thane Tor Blackmoore was less worried. When he had first heard the news, he had gripped the chair he was sitting in with hands like steel, until the size was relayed. One hundred men, plus the Blackmoore vassals; this was a procession of honour, not mourning. Erik must have performed some feats at Amol to warrant this. Tor wasn't too thrilled to be meeting Stormcloak again, but if his son was now a hero, he couldn't be prouder.

They were sighted a few miles away in the afternoon, so Tor dressed ready to meet the Thegn. Mail and a red surcoat with the emblem of Blackmoore, three gold stars under a gold bar. A sword and axe went at his side, and he combed back his hair, as best he could with its curls. Sonjia was to wait in the longhouse to receive the Thegn, and he trusted her completely to ensure the entrance was magnificent. They shared a kiss, before Tor strode from the room and into the courtyard. Nik was by the honour guard, grinning and joking with the men. The Thane was about to join him but suddenly a presence appeared by him.

'Hello, brother.' It was Tor's sister; Nura Blackmoore.

Nura was a few years younger than Tor, in her mid forties, with the long limbs of Clan Blackmoore, pure, pale green eyes, lacking the brown specks of his own with a slightly heart shaped face. In her youth, she had been beautiful. Now, older, she was handsome. But no amount of beauty could remedy her icy disposition.

'I wasn't expecting you back so soon,' Tor said, hugging her. She returned it awkwardly.

'Yes, well,' she began as she struggled from the embrace; 'good. Your landholdings are fine.' She said that with some jealously, Tor noticed, but he didn't comment on it.

'I expected nothing else.'

'Then why send me?'

Tor turned to look down at her. 'A Thane is only as powerful as he appears.'

Nura raised her eyebrow. 'Is he? I think it's what isn't shown that makes a person powerful, Tor.'

'Really? I'll remember that next time I face a large army of men,' he observed sarcastically. 'Besides, Blackmoore's have no use for secrets.'

'Everyone has use for secrets, Tor,' she told him.

'Then we don't do it that way,' he argued forcedly.

'Then how do "we" do it?'

'With honour.'

'In Skyrim?' she scoffed.

'Why not?' he asked, frowning.

She smiled, shaking her head. 'You're too naïve, Tor. It'll get you hurt one day.'

Tor gave her a look before walking off. There was no particular love between him and his sister.

'I'll see you at the feast,' she called. And then she was inside the longhouse, no doubt going to bother Sonjia. Tor sighed as he strode to his horse. There was something about Nura that just pushed people away. It was why she had never married, though there had been enough suitors in her day.

He strode up to his horse, but before he could mount, Nik grabbed his arm.

'What is it?' Tor asked, raising his eyebrows.

'I've seen the men. Nearly half our strength is gone,' he said.

'Half,' Tor mused, weighing his losses and resources. 'We can recruit from the countryside.' He mounted his horse, but Nik wasn't done.

'You taught us to lead from the front. If Erik did…'

Tor had understood what Nik was implying perfectly from the moment he started talking, but he hadn't wanted to say anything, in case words gave substance to the darker thoughts at the back of his mind. 'He's fine, I'm sure.' He started leading the men from the town, but the conversation was unsettling. He hadn't realised that Nik cared so much.

'**Horn ahead,' Nikulas said, leaning** forward on his horse. 'No more than a bow shot away.'

Tor never understood any of Nikulas' archer terminology, but he didn't question it. In any case, the boy was right; they were near.

The Thegn came up first, followed by his guard, and Erik. They were all dressed in mail and surcoats, as a Nord does when they return from war. Tor noticed how close Erik was to the Thegn; that was a sign of position, and power. Blackmoore wasn't sure if he was pleased, or suspicious.

'Thane Blackmoore,' said Carl Alsfur Stormcloak, riding up easily. 'May I use your hall's hospitality?'

'It would be an honour, my Thegn.'

Stormcloak nodded, and smiled. 'I have many stories to tell you about your son.'

It unnerved Tor somewhat to see that Alsfur was almost a man now; he held himself like one, and his speech suggested an age on par with Tor's own. It was uncomfortably powerful; good, as he would be Jarl one day, but still strange. He fixed a slightly lighter scowl to his face, and nodded respectfully.

'May I enquire as to his performance? Erik?' He looked between the two boys, or was it men now?

'I was honoured to be Carl Alsfur's shield brother,' Erik said. Tor noticed that he straightened up as he said this.

Tor was taken aback. 'Really?'

'He's a terrific fighter,' Carl Alsfur Stormcloak told Tor. 'He protected my arse as we got into the thick of things.' His face turned sombre. 'I have bad news though.'

'But you took back the fort?' Nik asked, frowning.

'Aye, but in a way I wished we hadn't,' Erik said, looking grim.

'What was it?' Tor asked. Uncertainty rose in his gut, mixed with suspicion.

'The bandits were actually Silver-Blood men,' Alsfur Stormcloak supplied shortly. 'I sent a raven to my father.'

'Silver-Bloods!' Nik exclaimed. 'The hell were they doing in Fort Amol?'

'Committing treason,' Alsfur said, his expression grim. He looked like his father as his mouth turned downward, but then Stormcloak looked up again and it was gone.

'What did you tell the Jarl to do?' Tor asked, glancing at the road before turning his attention back to the Thegn.

'What any son would do, I guess. Watch his back.' Alsfur cut off the conversation and like that, they were left walking alone with their thoughts. And none of them good.

**It troubled Tor Blackmoore as **he sat in the feast. Sonjia hadn't disappointed. In the east of Skyrim, the night came quickly. By the time they returned to town (Tor's bannermen camped outside Jarl's Head) it was dark, but the hall glowed with hundreds of lights. The banners of Clan Blackmoore hung proudly in the hall, guards lined the side, and the tables had been set up. As was tradition, Tor took his high seat, but the position of pride was given over to Carl Alsfur who sat in the centre of the high table, located up on the dias. The Theyn's and their families resided on the tables lined up vertically down the length of the hall. The atmosphere was light, and bubbly. It was almost enough to get Tor to relax his guard. Almost.

The Silver-Blood situation preyed heavily on Tor's mind, despite the good meal and comfort of having his heir home. He wondered what the Jarl was going to do, and how the King would react. None of his thoughts provided any comfort and when he looked at them objectively they were starkly revealed to be nothing more than guesses. He felt a hand on his arm; it was Sonjia. She nodded meaningfully, and said;

'Smile. It's only for a few more hours.'

He nodded, forcing a grimace, which she nodded at encouragingly, and he turned to look at Carl Stormcloak, on his left. Tor's sons were located on Carl Alsfur's right, and Nura after them. Alsfur himself was playing his part; looking happy and relaxed, but in control. Even so, the façade shifted for a moment, and he suddenly bore more than a resemblance to his father, Jarl Stormcloak, who often sat through feasts looking bored and deadpan. But as soon as it came, it was gone. It was strange how alike Tor and Jon were; by this reckoning they should be better friends, but they weren't. They were just too alike. He leaned closer as he listened to their conversation.

'What was the battle like?' asked Nik, grinning at Erik.

'Deadly,' he replied shortly.

'Ah, I bet you didn't kill a single man.'

Carl Alsfur shifted his attention from looking past Tor to the brothers. 'Erik killed many men. He's a good warrior.'

'Erik?' Nik looked sceptical. 'Since when have you ever been in a fight?'

'When have you?'

Nik smiled a smile that said he didn't like the last comment. 'I don't feel like dying… just yet. Anyway, what would you do without me?'

'Be much better off, I suppose,' Erik replied.

Nik made to reply, but Tor had a question to ask of Alsfur, who had resumed his look past Tor.

'What evidence did you find of the Silver-Bloods?'

'Men with surcoats, and weapons. I was told they fought well too,' Carl Alsfur replied succulently.

'Are you sure that is enough to make certain your allegations, my Thegn,' Tor said, frowning.

'My father will judge the evidence well enough,' Stormcloak replied. He changed topic quickly, obviously uncomfortable. 'Who's that, by Lady Sonjia?'

Tor looked to see where his attention really was. The answer didn't surprise him; he had already heard many rumours about the Stormcloak's heir's… taste for women. As such he gave up the information reluctantly. 'That is Sonjia's niece; Tavia. We took her in after her parents were killed in a dragon attack.'

'She's unusual for a Nord, isn't she?'

Tor turned cold, and he spoke curtly. 'No more than anyone else.' He was fiercely loyal when it came to his family.

'Which parent was the Redguard?' Alsfur asked intuitively, still watching her.

Tor looked at her; it was hard to tell, but with her dark hair, almond shaped eyes and tanned skin, there was something different about her as compared to most Nords, it was true. 'Her father was half-Redguard,' Tor admitted. _The Thegn is observant_.

'How has she been adapting?'

'That's not your business, my Thegn,' Tor said, completely unaware about how curtly he had answered his lord. Carl Alsfur didn't say anything though. Instead he sank back in his seat, still watching her. Luckily, by the time Tor looked at him again, he had started talking to Erik about the battle at Amol. Certainly _they_ seemed to be getting on well; there was something about Stormcloak which was very personable, and it complimented Erik's silence well. Tor was wary that his firstborn would get too close to the Stormcloaks, which was always to be advised against. He was about to turn away, but then Nura asked the Thegn something.

'Have you heard any news from Whiterun, Carl Alsfur?'

Stormcloak frowned, before deciding something. 'The meeting is underway. You're likely get the news when my father returns.'

'And how soon do you think that will be?'

Stormcloak shook his head. 'I don't know. The King does things his own way.'

'That he does,' Nura agreed darkly. Alsfur stared at her, his eyes boring into her own until she turned away. Tor had wanted to hear some news, but he wasn't about to press it if there was nothing to be said, or if Carl Stormcloak had nothing he wanted to say. Instead he turned back to the feast, idly watching Nik and Erik laugh together until Sonjia tapped him again.

**As was custom, the Thegn **was to have the best bedroom. The Blackmoore's kept the old Nordic practice of the Head of the Clan sleeping in the second best bedroom, as hospitality demanded. Only the king was exempt from this law, and the Jarls in their own palaces, save if another Jarl or the King himself was a guest. So it was there that Tor led Carl Stormcloak. It was a silent walk. As he was about to turn away the room, Alsfur caught his arm.

'Thane Tor. I don't think you're pleased with me making Erik my shield-brother for the battle at Amol.'

Tor had been trying to ignore the strange feelings that had been plaguing his mind since he had heard the news. But now that Alsfur mentioned it, he knew what he thought; he wasn't happy. Vivid memories from his time in the Stormcloak army came back to him, repressed for years, and suddenly realised why he had been so cold to the Stormcloaks these past years; they had shouted freedom, but instead returned Skyrim to the Empire. Tor had buried his feelings, but now they suddenly came back up, fresh as ever.

'I'm not,' Tor admitted, oblivious to being tactful. 'Over eleven years ago, I supported your grandfather when he challenged High King Torygg. He believed in a Skyrim that was free to rule itself, and I stood by those beliefs. Both I and the Lady Sonjia fought in Ulfric's 'rebellion' until the day your father killed him.'

'I never wanted Erik too close to you,' Tor continued; 'but now it seems he is.' _War makes men, but also friends. Did I really want them to be friends, Alsfur and Erik? _

Alsfur didn't get angry. He just nodded. 'I'll see you tomorrow.' He closed his door and Tor walked back to his own bedroom, his thoughts a swirl of emotions. When he arrived, Sonjia was already under the sheets, reading by the light of a candle.

'Is Carl Alsfur settled in?' she asked, looking up as he came in.

'Yes.'

She put down her book. 'So, what's troubling you?'

Tor wasn't surprised; Sonjia knew him too well. 'I don't like the friendship between Alsfur and Erik.'

'Tor, it might be good,' she said. 'Any connections he can make now might help him later.'

'But they're the Stormcloaks-'

'Exactly Tor! They're the Stormcloaks. Erik will need to carve himself a place by them as soon as possible. You should have done the same.'

Tor gritted his teeth. 'They're oathbreakers-'

'Jon never made an oath to free Skyrim,' she pointed out before sighing. 'I know you hated losing, and the Empire's return, but it may be for the best. At least put aside your grudges, for Erik.' That caught Tor. If he could put it aside for anyone, it would be for his son.

There was a short span of silence before Tor spoke again. 'How was Erik?'

'He didn't tell you,' she said, raising her eyebrows. 'Fine; I actually think he has a taste for battle.'

'Is that a good thing?' Tor asked, a little concerned.

'Well, I don't know. But I suspect the King called the Jarls to court for only one thing; war.'

'You want him to go?'

Sonjia shook her head. 'Of course I don't. But sometimes, mothers don't have a choice. I have to make do with the hand I've been dealt though.'

'Doesn't that remind you of Nikulas?' Tor asked, blunt as ever.

Sonjia frowned. 'You underestimate him.'

'I'm just trying to be realistic.'

'By putting him down?'

'You know I would never say this to him,' Tor told her as he got into bed.

'But you already do. It's your face, your movements; the hugs, the praise. He already knows.'

'He's going nowhere, Sonjia.'

'Like your sister?'

Tor nodded. 'Unfortunately.'

'He'll find his place,' Sonjia said confidently.

Tor spread his hands. 'But where?'

She looked at him, her face softening. 'You don't want him to leave, do you?'

Blackmoore looked down. 'I don't want him to become a mercenary, or a… trader, no.'

Sonjia laughed. 'Nik has much higher aspirations than becoming a trader.'

Tor was even smiling now as well. 'Does he? I wouldn't have known.'

She hit him lightly. 'He's much more ambitious.'

'So am I.' He was watching her now intently, smiling.

Sonjia raised her eyebrows saucily. 'Really?'

Tor nodded, and moved forward, sealing it with a kiss.

**Remember to review guys! I think you'll like and hate the next chapter. I hope you do. **


	27. Familar Foes

**We're getting near the end of Part I now, and we'll move onto Part II, where things really kick off. Here's a Jon chapter. Hopefully you guys will like it. If you do like it, please review! **

**The thanks: To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Nah, I'm not so sure about any crossovers personally, though I have read LOTR, so I know what you're getting at. Tor is like any Stormcloak supporter. Slightly narrow-minded. Sorry to all your Stormcloak supporters. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! 'The Jarl's Man' are his Clan's words, but who ever said that the Lord followed his words? Tor has always been sour towards them, and he kept repeating his words to remind himself of his duty. You won't see Alsfur hitting on her, yet, at least, and that was not a well thought out bet. To Steak and a Spud, thanks for the Story Follower. Thanks to everyone! **

**A big thanks to HL for the excellent editing job. I think this might kick you off your feet a little. Please review! **

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak **

**The pit was black as **night, or, as deep as the depths of Jarl Jon Stormcloak's hidden pain. His breath came out ragged, like he had just sprinted a hundred metres, but he held it in as he stepped forward. A Nord waited in the centre, his hands placed on a sword, unsheathed, the point touching the ground. He looked up with vul, _dark_, grey eyes, empty eyes.

'Ulfric.' Jon hadn't uttered his name in years. It felt heavy on his tongue.

'Jon,' he answered. His voice felt light, but his son didn't notice it.

'Father!' He ran to Ulfric but stopped short from his embrace when the other Nord didn't do anything. 'Father?' he asked, frowning.

Suddenly, Ulfric drew up his zahkrii, _blade_, slicing open Jon's cheek. He yelped and dodged the next strike, drawing Kodaav, but before he could recover Ulfric launched a sledgehammer kick to his stomach. Jon flew back, crashing through a wooden door, falling into dark, wet mud. He looked around in shock; he was in Falkreath. The rain was falling, and his hands were bloody. Jon stared at them, his horror rising.

Ulfric's voice cut off his thoughts. 'That's my blood. From when you murdered me.'

'I didn't-' Jon said weakly, but Ulfric didn't listen. He lunged and Jon rolled, scrambling for Kodaav. He raised the blade and the steel clashed, creating a thunderclap. Jon kicked out Ulfric's leg and drew his dagger, his fury aroused. The elder Stormcloak imposed his arm. The steel sunk into his flesh. Without hesitation he drew it out, slicing at Jon's throat. His son rolled in the mud, keeping hold of his shimmering blade which was choked in brown shit. Jon rose, as did the elder Stormcloak, and dodged Ulfric's sudden attack, throwing his father over his back. He twisted, slamming Kodaav down. It punched through Ulfric's chest and he sunk back, his demonic expression loosening.

Jon's face was strained, but tears were beginning to roll down his cheeks and as he finally comprehended what he had done.  
'Jon.' His son looked down at him, before slumping next to his dying father, exhausted. 'You have to make me a promise.'  
'Anything, Father,' Jon said, all grudges gone. All his hate was wiped out; sudden, and strangely. It felt surreal. Jon tightened his jaw. The sadness and guilt of the outcome was threatening to take him over.  
'Promise me…' Jon waited, his heart slowing. 'Promise me, you will not forget, what happened here.'  
'But Father-'  
'Enough!' Ulfric started to cough great hacking coughs, sos, _blood_, spilling from his mouth. Each breath was low and rasping. 'Promise you will see our line survive.'  
Jon nodded, feeling like a boy. 'I swear, Father.'  
Ulfric Stormcloak nodded, before falling back in the mud, his face sweaty and pale. 'It hurts so much.'  
'I'm here, Father.'  
Anger turned Ulfric's features and his eyes blackened, a look reserved for his enemies. 'Sadly.' The life drained from him as shock enveloped Jon. He fell back, dropping Kodaav, as tear rushed down his face. Ulfric's eyes were open, and they watched him, accusingly.

'I didn't mean to kill you. I tried my best,' Jon choked, trying to grasp back the lifeless man so he could tell him. The mud washed away, turning back to the cold stone, black as midnight. Stormcloak sobbed, pain and loss beating down his body and mind. He was so tired.

Suddenly a voice, deeper and darker. Far more powerful; clear and… _evil_.

'Kosod. Not well enough though, Dovahkiin. '

Jon turned. It was Alduin. Dark fear racked through his legs and he stumbled, falling to his hands and knees. He gripped Kodaav, his lifeline, with his remaining strength. Around Alduin's feet was a vast horde of undead.

'Yes, Dovahkiin. Hin kah fen kos bonaar. Bow down to me. Accept defeat. It is not a sign of cowardness, but wisdom. You are broken.'

'No, I live still.'

'THEN FIGHT!' Alduin barked. The undead swept forward but still Jon stayed, stuck to the floor. He looked up with dead eyes. The first was on him. With a roar he rose and slammed Kodaav up, through its ribcage. The next came for him and he blocked its swing, stepping in close and drawing his blade across its stomach, revealing dead organs. The next, and he swung, ducked and slashed. They fell at his feet but now Jon felt even worse. The stench made his stomach threaten to heave and blood soaked his clothes. His blood, pouring out of the wounds that had never healed. It ran down the gaps in the stone, filling it, choking it. Jon's boots were heavy in a sea of red. He almost crumpled as he watched it with dizzy eyes.

'Pruzah. Impressive. But you don't have Kodaav anymore.' The skyforge steel was ripped from his grip and slid to Alduin's feet, washed in scarlet waves. He snorted. 'Again.'

More undead came and Jon slammed into them, using his thu'um, _voice_, to blow them apart. He ripped one apart, before kicking in a skull. They were dead, but he was spent.

'Again, pruzah. But you do not have your voice either. It was my gift, never yours. Now, I take it!'

Jon felt a sudden tightness in his throat and then a breath of ripping air that rushed through his body. He choked out silver blood and fell, heaving.

'I take your strength too, Dovahkiin.' Jon collapsed, weak. But Kodaav was still by Alduin's feet. He started crawling, his determination alive, thrusting forward. Alduin watched him, laughing. 'You are pathetic! You are nothing, Dovahkiin. I take your passion, your speed, your will, your good; I take EVERYTHING!' Alduin was spitting now; his red eyes were ablaze and he moved closer to Jon, taunting him as he crawled forward. 'You are nothing! I am the World Eater. I control you! You are MINE!'

Jon stopped, too weak to move anymore, and stretched out his hand. It touched Kodaav's pommel. Only now did Alduin, before lost in his arrogance, realise what Jon was doing. With a deft movement he kicked away the sword. 'I take your hope,' he uttered softly. The great dragon moved close, his breath filling Jon's body, choking him. 'And I take your life.' And then the blackness fell over him like a shroud.

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak woke screaming. **He ripped through his sheets and rushed to his bedside cabinet, punching through it. With a roar he threw it, moving to his armour stand and grabbing the mail, tearing it as his tendons bulged. He smashed the steel plate, and ripped apart his bed. He saw Alduin in the shadows and leapt on them, smashing the wood apart. He heard noises on the corridor but they were just more undead. Jon was ready this tiid, _time_. Stormcloak roared and grabbed the first man through the door, slamming his head against the wall, crushing it. Spit covered the blood as several pairs of hands grabbed him, pulling him back. He let out a cry, before slumping to his knees. Tears ran down his face, and he punched the ground. His hands were covered in blood; the knuckles were ripped up.

'Jon! Jon, we're here! You're safe,' Ralof said, taking his shoulder.

'It was Alduin,' Jon choked.

'He's dead. You killed him.'

Stormcloak nodded, relief fighting to be heard. 'I killed him. I watched him die. He's dead.'

'Yes, Jon. You defeated him.'

The Dovahkiin nodded, as reality sunk back in. 'Get him aid,' he ordered weakly, staggering from the room in his ripped shirt before collapsing in the corner, wishing Ysold was here. The morning had come, and light filtered into the corridor. Weak light, hardly a comfort. Ralof returned a few minutes later with clothes for him, which Jon pulled on. While he had been gone, Stormcloak had been thinking. It was very simple; if Skyrim was to survive, he had to get rid of Thongvor. The letter from Alsfur was his proof; with it, he could discredit Silver-Blood and put an end to his schemes.

Jon raised himself, and begun to speak before he noticed his throat was sore, and his body felt like fire had been put through it. Stabbing pains shot through his sos, _blood_. With a tang of deep, dark, fathomless fear, sharp as the smell of burning flesh, Jon realised another attack was coming.

'I can contact the King, and get him to postpone the meeting-'

'No.' Jon said, knowing that he didn't have much time. He needed to act now. Panic bit at his thoughts. 'I need to go now. Get the letter,' he ordered impatiently.

'But you look like shit!' Ralof protested. He changed tact quickly at the look on Stormcloak's face. 'You need to think about your evidence. It's too weak-

'Just go,' barked Jon angrily. The pain was getting worse, but he managed to raise himself before staggering from the ruined apartments. His room was torn up, and the door had been thrown off its hinges, but Jon didn't care. It had ceased to matter.

Time was running out to confront Silver-Blood before he could get news of the attack and cover his tracks. The moot had been already postponed for a few days, to make way for Nelkir's execution. Remembering that hurt, almost as bad as the coming attack. Jon had fought violently with the King, but in the end the boy had been hung outside Dragonsreach. Stormcloak hadn't gone; the rest of the Jarls had no qualms with seeing Balgruuf's son die though. It sickened Jon, but the King had carefully avoided his stares, and, at this crucial time, Stormcloak knew he couldn't say anything which might divide the court. So, he had fumed and struggled with guilty thoughts in silence. The pain was getting worse.

The Joor, _King,_ sat at the head again, but this time everyone looked wary. Elisif's eyes darted around the room and even Siddgeir's typically bored expression was replaced by a look of rapt attention.

Balgruuf looked round at them all, his expression one of immense tiredness. 'Have you all decided?' he asked without preamble, his voice as dead his discarded son's body. Silence. 'I for one will side with the Empire.' Still silence.

'Your Majesty, I will not.' The Jarls turned to look at the voice. Jon's heart sank, even though he knew it had been coming. Thongvor Silver-Blood stood up. 'The Empire is weak. They will be defeated. Why should we bow to them?' He looked around at the assembled Jarls. 'Here's my answer; we shouldn't. Trust me when I say-'  
It was time. 'But why should we trust you? I don't,' Jon said, standing as well, ignoring the stiffness in his joints. It was getting closer. The faaz, _fear_, almost stopped him from speaking, and he moved slowly, as if that could prolong the time he had left. But there was one good thing left in his mind; he was ready to destroy Silver-Blood. Fire rushed through his veins in anticipation, until the pain began again. Then, it was real fus, _fire_, boiling his blood. Jon gritted his teeth.  
'Your opinion is not of my concern.'  
'It wasn't an opinion,' Stormcloak spat, words becoming difficult. Jon pulled out the letter, showing it to the court at large. 'A few weeks ago the Silver-Bloods attacked Fort Amol. My land. My son has the proof for any who would wish to see it, but for now you'll have to take my word.'  
'What!' Silver-Blood looked pale, with anger, or fear, Jon couldn't tell. 'This is a lie; I and my kin have done nothing of the kind,' Thongvor shot back. The room was silent; even Balgruuf was watching them, waiting.  
'You would say that.'  
'How can you be sure I ordered it? Where is your proof?'  
That struck Jon. He frowned, looked to Ralof, who was watching, shaking his head slightly, his eyes guarded, but the naked fear shone through clearly enough. Stormcloak hardly had time to realise his mistake. 'I-' Suddenly the pain increased rapidly. It started rocketing through his body, tearing apart his nerves. He pounded the table, letting out a cry and Ralof rushed to his side. 'Get me out,' Jon croaked, oblivious to the meeting now, to what Silver-Blood was saying. Pain burst through his legs, red hot, sudden. Fear assaulted his mind and he fell. Ralof tried to pull him up, but to no avail. He was thrashing now, screaming. The court was still silent.  
But Jon was gone, into blackness, and down, onto the stone floor of the throne room in the Palace of Kings. He felt sore, but free. His problems disappeared and he lay back, his body throbbing. Jon smiled, closing his eyes and savouring the feeling of cool water, washing through his body, calming his nerves. Sometimes he passed out during attacks, not often, but occasionally, which was a relief, but something about the air stilled happy thoughts. He felt two sets of eyes on him.  
Jon Stormcloak got to his feet slowly, his limbs still aching. His mother was sitting on the steps leading up to the Throne of Ysgramor. But her son didn't have time to feel shock because next to her, standing, his dark, _dark_, grey eyes locked on Jon, was Ulfric Stormcloak.

'Hello, Father.'

**Anyone wanted to see Ulfric again? I sound like a broken record but please review! (It takes time to write this, so please.) Anyway, next chapter is a Ralof chapter, and you'll see the follow up to, ahem (points at story). **


	28. The End Of An Era

**Okay, first things first. Why does EVERYONE think Jon is dead? That last chapter was just a normal attack (see how rubbish they are). He's alive. I decided to put these two chapters together because I want to move on to more exciting things and there was no point of holding it back when (if it was a book) you could just keep reading. So, as with everytime it changes POV it is a new chapter, but consider it a late Christmas present. **

**I've nearly finished my exams! Just some bastard history left. Ironically, I did my English one yesterday (hopefully it will be good). **

**To Delphine hater; thanks for the review! Nelkir's death was pretty unexpected. Ulfric isn't really 'back' so to say, but he will feature next chapter. I'm really pleased that you liked how I portrayed Jon's fear and the final bit is a dream (with Ulfric and Alea). Silver-Blood never cowered in fear, and trust me when I say that in this chapter, he definitely isn't going to be. Sorry, I meant that I didn't think I could do a LOTR crossover, though I have read the books. I think the two worlds are a bit too separate and I couldn't put Jon up against Aragorn. **_**The**_** Aragorn. (My favourite LOTR character.) As for Jon dying, don't worry about him. to Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Did I not thank you last time? My pardons. Thanks for the last review, and thanks for this one. Also, happy birthday! Hopefully this can be a second present. To Foacir, thanks for the review! Good to see you again. Nope, Jon isn't dead. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Jon is hardy, and he always pulls himself back. I like that as well. The voice may pop up again, but Nelkir is sadly dead. It is annoying when you think a character is going to have a major role, but then doesn't. Hopefully the Jon and Ulfric chapter will be good. Jon isn't dead! To andrewpond16, thanks for the Favourite for me! To General77, thanks for the review! Glad you liked it. (I can't be bothered to message you directly either.) **

**I hope these are good. Please remember to review! **

**Carl Ralof Wood**

**Carl Ralof Wood watched the **meeting with bated breath. His eyes flickered from one Nord to the other as Jon went head to head with Silver-Blood. His Housecarl had already noticed the signs pointing to an attack; Jon was slumped, his eyes tired, his breath ragged. As he moved, his jaw tightened with pain, but Ralof was stuck, unable to do anything. He had tried to muse on all the possible outcomes, but his mind was on edge and he found it hard to concentrate.

The truth was the letter would be poor proof. The son of the accuser was hardly a reliable source, and Jon had underestimated Silver-Blood's worth fatally. Ralof had tried to warn him, even that boy, the King's bastard son, had told him, but in the end Jon had refused to listen to any of them. He had always been a poor judge of character, but now Stormcloak had rushed into this meeting with little thought for its possible outcomes. Just like Ulfric. They were more alike than thought possible. _I still can't believe I didn't notice it when I first met Jon, _he mused.

Wood's mind snapped back to the moot, as Thongvor challenged Jon's evidence, just as Ralof knew he would. He wasn't scared anymore; just morose. Stormcloak stood still, his face impassive. He opened his mouth.

'I-'

And then it happened. Jon Stormcloak stopped speaking, his face tight and pale. Sweat streaked down his face, and Ralof rushed forward to his Jarl's side.

'Get me out,' he croaked. Wood could barely hear a word he said, but he caught the intent and sprang into action. He started raising Jon from his seat. Silver-Blood watched, leaning forward, his eyes glinting.

'Does Jarl Stormcloak not wish to fight his case?' He glanced around, noting the expressions of the other lords of Skyrim around him. Ralof knew what was coming next. Silver-Blood smiled and spoke again. 'Do you-'

It was then that it became worse. Jon fell to the ground, screaming. He started spasming and crying out. His leg hit Ralof and the Carl was thrown back into a chair, knocking it over. Thongvor had been struck dumb. He watched Jon writhing on the floor, a frown etched into his face. Balgruuf's hands were dug into his chair's armrests, his face a mask of shock.

Ralof pulled himself up from the broken chair, his back sending out jolts of pain. Wood had forgotten Jon's incredible strength. He had thrown him around like a ragdoll! Mercifully, Stormcloak had fallen silent suddenly. Ralof groaned as he stood upright, half in pain, the other part dismay. Jon was still and quiet on the ground, his face sweaty and pale. He was breathing shallowly. The other Jarls stared at the Dragonborn, too stunned to say anything.

Finally, Balgruuf got his voice. 'What was that?'

Ralof turned to them, his hands sweaty. He took a deep breath. Would Jon want him to tell them this? Did he really have a choice? _I suppose not, _Ralof answered himself glumly.

He drew himself up, and stepped forward, trying to muster power and confidence into his voice. He failed. 'The price of being a hero.'

'The Dragonborn,' Thongvor Silver-Blood said, his face curling into a sneer. 'We all have our moments, and it seems like his has passed.'

Ralof was outraged, but also dumbfounded. All he could say was this; 'how can you say that?'

'The truth?' Silver-Blood asked, his eyebrow raised. 'Easily.' He turned to the other Lords of Skyrim. 'Your Majesty. My Jarls and Thanes. Are you still willing to follow a cripple? Will he win you a victory? He can't even beat himself, it seems.'

Ralof didn't know what to say. He tried to protest, but Silver-Blood shot him down. If Jon was here, in mind as well as body, he would know what to say, but the Carl was lost.

'Now, wait, Silver-Blood. That isn't fair,' the King began.

'Why not?' Thongvor retorted. 'He was a great hero, once,' he added.' Ralof winced. 'Now? I will not follow a figurehead, which is why I won't follow the Empire.' His face tightened with quick thinking. 'And it is also why I won't follow you, Balgruuf.' The court let out stunned breaths. _It sure is a fucking interesting day for them_, Ralof thought irately.

'Do you want me to challenge you to single combat, or shall I just leave?' Thongvor continued, icily.

Balgruuf frowned, obviously trying to make out what had just happened. Then, a scowl took up a place in his face and he stood, his anger fearsome to behold. 'Guards!' he bellowed. They filtered through and Wind-Shifter leant forwards, a smirk on his face. 'Think again before challenge me, Silver-Blood.'

For a second relief rushed through Ralof, but the he noticed that Thongvor didn't look the least bit worried, and in flash it became apparent.

'I already have.' Thongvor said, stepped back. The guards were dressed in the silver-grey of Clan Silver-Blood. Balgruuf looked around in disbelief.

'This is treason-'

'Not without a king,' Silver-Blood said. He drew his sword, and the guards around him did the same. The Jarls and Thanes were suddenly surrounded by a wall of steel. They drew their own weapons, but they was taken quickly. The room was silent. 'This man is no king,' Silver-Blood told the Jarls. 'We need a new one, I think.' The Lords of Skyrim were silent, dumbstruck. Balgruuf looked ready to fight though, his face red. Thongvor raised his sword to the king, but stopped when someone stepped in front of him. It was Carl Silver-Blood, his son.

Thongvor stopped, frowning. He spoke carefully. 'What are you doing?'

The Lord Housecarl looked unsure, but he steadied himself, tightening his grip on his sword. 'My duty.'

Silver-Blood's fury was clear to see, and his eyes looked around wildly, fire swirling through them. His lips were drawn together so tightly they almost didn't exist. He turned to look at the King. 'I'll take my leave. If any wish to be free of the Empire, join me in Markarth.' With that he strode from the room, his cloak billowing out behind him. He didn't sheath his sword, and the Silver-Blood men soon followed. The King sank back, looking dumbstruck.

'He can't mean to-' Balgruuf began.

'He is, Your Majesty,' Thorek Silver-Blood said, watching the door, his eyes distant. 'He will fight.'

'But not very well, I think.' The King returned his attention back to Jon. 'What happened? What is this?' he asked quietly, not expecting an answer. HE put his head in his hands. The other Jarls looked just as horrified. No one moved, but their eyes returned to Jon.

Ralof just looked down, tired. He was so tired. He looked at Stormcloak's crumpled body. _How did it all come to this? We're on the edge of Civil War, and the greatest hero of our time… _He looked around, somewhat desperate. He wanted help, guidance. But as he looked around, he noticed something else. The Jarls expressions; disdain, anger, fear. They glanced at Jon like he was a cripple. Pity shone through their eyes. And no one was doing anything! It all struck a nerve. Ralof began to get angry. It was their fault that he was this way! The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

'This is your fault!' The Jarls and King turned to look at him. No one seemed to have any fight left. It seemed he would have to have enough for all of them.

'Jon fought for Skyrim; he saved all of your fucking lives but now you look at him with disdain and pity. You should be on your knees in front of him, offering to carry him back.' He was becoming really angry now; furious. His blood boiled and he glared at all of them. Balgruuf began to speak, but Ralof cut him off. 'And you! You and your decisions! Jon trusted you to be a just king, but you betrayed him. He knew he was in danger here, but he came back to fight for you, as he has always done. I don't even know why,' Ralof spat vehemently, wonderingly, his face a mask of contempt. 'First, your scroll, then the dragon, after that, your city. And his final gift to the great Balgruuf Wind-Shifter? A golden crown.' He stared around at all of them. He didn't even care what they thought about his treasonous outburst. Balgruuf looked ready to speak, but held his silence. His face… was it guilt?

'If you don't act soon, my King.' He spat out the style, gritting his teeth; 'Skyrim is going to be destroyed.' And then he picked up Jon, the bastard was heavy as anything but he wouldn't do him the dishonour of dragging him, and left the room.

It was only when he was back in Jon's apartments that he stopped to think. He left Jon on the bed and sat, his mind racing. _What have I done? I defied the King! I could be hanged. _That scared him. Cold fear rushed through Ralof's body and his heart pounded, threatening to break through his ribs. Jon wouldn't be able to protect him. He briefly considered leaving the city; he could be at Windhelm by the end of the month. But what would that achieve? But then, what would his death? Ralof sank back in his chair, his head pounding. _I think I'm going to be sick, _he thought gloomily, for lack of anything to think about. Suddenly the door burst open and Ralof jumped up, drawing his axe, but it was just the Captain of Jon's guard.

'Carl Ralof-' He stopped when he saw the Jarl, but Wood ignored his face and led him from the room with a firm hand.

'What is it?' he asked, after the door had been firmly shut, or whatever was left after Jon's earlier rage.

The Captain was smart enough to disregard what he had seen, but he still looked scared, and grim. 'Silver-Blood just left the palace. Me and some of the Jarl's men tried to intercept him but his Guard cut through us like a knife through butter. Last I saw he was galloping off in the direction of Markarth.' Hr paused; 'What happened in there?'

'The end of Skyrim. The Jarl was… incapacitated.' He felt uncomfortable even referring to Jon's illness. 'Silver-Blood fought with the King and now he's broken away from the kingdom. He left to rally his forces,' Ralof admitted heavily.

The captain looked troubled, as well he should have. 'These are dark tidings.'

'That's an understatement,' Ralof told him. 'Gather what's left of the Jarl's men. Have them guard the apartments. No one, not even the King gets in here without my, or the Jarl's, say-so. Understand?' Ralof added the bit about the Jarl's permission, though he doubted it would mean anything soon. He was about to turn away before he remembered something else. 'I want four of the best swords we have in the Guard on the Jarl's door.'

'Yes, Housecarl.' He inclined his head, more a nod, and strode off, calling at the top of his lungs. The Guard started pouring from their rooms, strapping on weapons. Four men fell in behind Ralof, all tough and battle scarred. Wood set them at the door before closing it behind him and sinking into a chair by Jon's bed. He rubbed his forehead, the stress of the last hour finally crushing his shoulders, pushing him into an abysmal gloom. Jon slept on in a fitful dream.

**Carl Thorek Silver-Blood **

**Carl Thorek Silver-Blood stood **in the corner, his hand on his sword, as his father defied the King. And then, when he called him forward, he came, Idgrod's teachings rushing through his mind. His blade glimmered in the light, and the shock etched on Father's features was satisfying, but then, when he left, Thongvor Silver-Blood only gave him a dismissive glance as he swept from the room. And that hurt even more. But he bore it in silence, an expression of determination fixed to his face.

The King sat back, his face white, as Jarl Thongvor left the room, his guardsmen behind him. Stormcloak's Housecarl had taken his master away and now the room was silent, as the remaining nobles considered their options.

'Shall I arrest Jarl Thongvor?' Thorek asked. The words felt heavy in his mouth.

The King shot him a look, but only shook his head. Silver-Blood didn't feel any better.

'Now what?' Elisif asked. She had never been the most astute of the Jarls, but today, surprisingly, the question was relevant, if unnecessary.

Balgruuf kneaded his forehead, before looking up. 'We prepare for war.'

'But the Thalmor, Your Majesty,' began Jarl Winter. The King cut him off.

'You think I don't know that?' He looked round at them. 'I'll crush Silver-Blood, and then we'll fight. I expect you all to stand with me.'

'That might be difficult,' one of the Jarls began, Merilis, of Dawnstar.

'And how would that be difficult?' asked the King, icily.

'Silver-Blood has a powerful force-'

'One force. No more. I already have his heir,' Thorek agreed to that fact, resentfully; 'and I can crush his armies easily enough. I'll do to him what I did to Ulfric Stormcloak all those years ago.'

Merilis looked wary as she spoke again. 'What the Dragonborn did, Your Majesty?'

He nodded curtly; even he knew it was pointless to argue that fact. 'Jon Stormcloak will fight with me.'

'But will he?' Elisif asked. She looked on the verge of tears. _Silly girl, _Thorek thought contemptuously. 'What if he dies?'

For a second even Balgruuf looked stunned. He opened his mouth, frowned, and then tried an unconvincing smile. 'I think not. Jon is much too strong.'

'He was.' The voice was Idgrod's. Thorek's grey eyes snapped to her and he frowned. He was still unsure about how he felt towards her after their last meeting.

'Speak, Ravencrone,' the King said harshly.

Idgrod looked uncertain, and Thorek stood still, his eyes guarded in case she looked to him. 'I think Jo-,' she stopped. Corrected herself; 'Jarl Stormcloak has been suffering the effects of Alduin's curse for some time. I think it would be prudent to look to his son now.'

Balgruuf smiled, a reflex to try and brush off bad news. 'Jon will live.'

'This day, yes,' Idgrod agreed. 'But, tomorrow? A month, a year? The era of the Dragonborn is fading.'

'I'll win this uprising without him,' Balgruuf countered angrily.

'The girl is stupid. Stormcloak will live, as he always has.' Anger grew in Thorek as his eyes turned to stare at a sandy haired, middle aged Thane, who was watching Idgrod with a cocky smile. 'Go back north and leave us real men here to discuss war.' More Thanes nodded, and even a Jarl smiled. Balgruuf looked between them, but then, didn't say anything. Thorek shot him a look, which he ignored.

'Silver-Blood, will he be a problem?' Thorek was startled from his revere by the King. Every eye was on him, watching to see what he would say. 'Will your father be a problem?' the King asked again.

The Lord Housecarl looked around, his eyes sweeping the faces of the Nords present. Suddenly, he knew the answer the King wanted. He wanted a 'no'; he wanted Thorek to dismiss his father as a threat, and as a result, keep hold of these Jarls wavering loyalty. To say so would obey the King; his duty. It might even keep Skyrim together. But then his eyes caught Idgrod, who was watching him. Her look was pleading. If he said 'yes', her warnings would be confirmed. She wouldn't be mocked. She might even be praised. _And only the gods know how much that means,_ Thorek thought guiltily, thinking of his own father.

The room was silent, waiting for his words. Silver-Blood watched her, nodded, but then his lips betrayed him. 'No.'

A sigh of relief echoed from the lips of the Jarls present, but Thorek's eyes were locked on Idgrod. She didn't look angry, but hurt. Betrayed. Silver-Blood angrily shoved away his feelings, but he couldn't help but get the impression that what he had done was unchivalrous. _But who gives a flying fuck about chivalry? _Thorek reasoned.Then the unsettling thought; maybe he did.

The King was making plans to send the Jarls back to their capitals to call the banners. They would strike against Father as soon as possible. Thongvor Silver-Blood had done nothing for Thorek, but he couldn't help feeling sick as he contemplated seeing his head on a pike. Luckily, the King's meeting was over. The Jarls were rushing off, making orders and shouting commands. They were on the verge of civil war again, and the King was doing nothing to prevent it. Thorek shook his head and waited for Balgruuf to leave, but he just sat there, calling out commands.

'Your Majesty, am I needed?' Thorek asked.

Balgruuf shook his head, hardly glancing at his Housecarl. Silver-Blood nodded and strode from the room with the intention of finding Idgrod. She deserved to know the truth if nothing else. As he exited the room, Silver-Blood heard sniggering. It annoyed him to no end, but he was about to ignore it before he heard the subject in question.

'…the stupid bitch knows nothing of war.'

'Wait there. I would argue that she knows nothing at all.' They were talking about Idgrod.

Thorek turned, his anger all consuming. It rushed through his body, but it didn't take long to spot the two men in question, the sandy haired Thane and his Housecarl, laughing in the corner. Silver-Blood took a deep breath, before stepping forward, trying to compose himself.

'What are you boys doing?'

'Boys? Watch who you're talking to, Carl,' the Thane warned.

'I do,' Thorek replied. 'And I'm not normally scared of little girls.'

'You bastard-'

'Stop talking about Lady Idgrod,' he commanded.

'Or what? I'll talk about who I will.'

'I'm warning you.'

'Then warn me and fuck off.'

Thorek nodded, turning away. Suddenly he leapt forward, grabbing the Nord's doublet and throwing him into the wall. The Thane's Housecarl tried to get a hold on Thorek's neck, but he pushed back, slamming his head into his opponent's nose and then threw him forward, over his back, onto his Thane. The two Nords fell down and Thorek reached for the Thane, pulling him up and slamming his head into the wall. Blood hit the stone and he dropped him, smiling grimly. Satisfaction rushed through him and Thorek bowed, mockingly. 'How that's for a fucking warning.' He strode away, wiping blood from his gloves, annoyed, and making for Idgrod's apartments. He had to catch her quickly; for all he knew, she might be gone tomorrow.

As Silver-Blood arrived he noticed the look of men who were resentful, but compliant to their master's orders. Or in this case, mistresses. Thorek's suspicions had been proven correct; the Jarls would likely be gone in the next few days and he would be left guarding a broken king. The thought only soured his mood.

Silver-Blood strode past the men, knocking aside the only man to challenge him. Idgrod's door was locked, naturally, so he banged on it, hard, and waited impatiently outside, glancing around at the workers with a certain degree of contempt. The crack of a lock sounded next to him, and the door opened to reveal Idgrod Ravencrone. She took one look at him and attempted to close the door, but quick as an arrow, Thorek wedged his foot into the gap, and then shoved open the door violently. Idgrod fell back, her hand resting on her dagger hilt, eyes suspicious. Thorek rolled his eyes disdainfully, frowning.

'Really, love?' He grabbed her wrist, pulling it from the weapon's hilt and throwing her back a little.

Idgrod stepped back, but then moved forward angrily as if remembering she should be confident, her cheeks flushed. 'Why didn't you support me?' she burst out. 'You knew I was right.'

'Weren't you the one who said I should always support the king, no matter what?' She looked down at her feet, but quickly regained her anger.

'You should have supported me anyway.' In truth though, her voice didn't have the same venom it did earlier. Thorek thought that must be progress.

There was silence, before she spoke again. 'Why have you come here?'

'I wanted to see you before you left.' He looked down at her and moved his jaw, trying to decide what to say next. 'I'm grateful for the help you've given me,' he got out, a hint of resent clouding the thank you.

She nodded, smiled a little, ignoring his tone. 'You will make a good Lord Housecarl.'

Thorek flashed her a grin. 'I know.' They fell silent again. There was something pressing at his mind; his father. He wanted to talk to somebody, but would that make him look weak? He sat on her bed and Idgrod sat next to him, her eyes soft. Thorek decided to risk it.

'I'm not looking forward to fighting my father.' His voice was weaker than he had wanted it to be.

Idgrod nodded and put her hand on his. 'It will never be easy.'

'Will it?' he asked, raising his eyebrow. 'I wasn't aware I cared about him.'

'You always care about your family. Or those you love,' she added softly.

A spike of cold shot up his spine. Suddenly it all made sense. The way she had looked at him when they first met, her mood swings, the easy way she forgave him. With a jarring sensation, Thorek realised that she was in love with him, and in that same instant, he wasn't. He never had been, but now he felt required to return her affections. But was that right? Probably not, but did he care? His thoughts snapped back to her, who had been surreptitiously moving closer. Silver-Blood could see what was happening, his eyes growing wide. _Any other wench and I'd fuck her here and be done with it. But Idgrod… _His emotions constricted his heart and mind, leaving him only one obvious, honourable choice.

He stopped her with a touch. Idgrod looked at him, a little surprised and hurt, but Thorek didn't feel like explaining himself. He just said;

'Find a nice man, darling. You'll make a good Jarl.' And the he left her. In end it seemed that Thorek Silver-Blood did, in fact, care.

**Well, there you go. Please review. I hope that was good and things have now officially kicked off. **


	29. The Return

**Okay, things are happening. I just finished my exams, which is good, (for the winter) and we are nearing the end of this part. Should be four more chapters. **

**The thanks: To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Thorek might be falling for her. Thongvor probably has doomed Skyrim, true. I don't think I could do a LOTR cross-over, so I won't be doing it. I'm not sure it would work. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! You executed the Silver-Bloods? probably for the best. Thanks for the exam luck. It does suck that you can't marry some people. The Lady of Betrayal and Plots doesn't like her champions dying indeed… Also, the last one (Ralof/Thorek) was your favourite chapter? Why (that's great by the way. Really cool.) To DragonXander, thanks for the review! He didn't wake up in Sovngarde, merely a dream. I'm glad you liked Ralof's outburst, and certainly Thorek does like Idgrod a little, definitely. Thanks to everyone! **

**Anyway, please review. Onto the Stormcloak sitcom. **

**Lady Ysold Stormcloak **

**Ulfgar sat on the Throne **of Ysgramor, his arms resting on the cold stone. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes alert. They reminded Ysold of Jon, especially in the way they softened as she gazed over her. But then the illusion broke as she noticed his face, that of the Stormcloaks: long, and harsh, with a strong jaw and solid brow. It was the face of Ulfric Stormcloak that she saw turn to look down at her, his yellow blond hair shot with streaks of black. Secretly, Ysold was disappointed that neither of her sons looked much like Jon. Alsfur had as much of herself in his face as his father. Ulfgar bore more of a resemblance, but anything that had really connected Jon and Ulfric in appearance had been tweaked slightly, as if the Gods were trying to scorn her, so that Ulfgar's face became wildly different.

After that Ysold might have hoped that her sons bore their father's temperament. Alsfur had proved to be quite different, but Ulfgar had been a surprise. In many ways he was almost Jon reborn. That didn't mean she had anything against Alsfur, but she loved Jon so much, that anything they could inherit from him was a good thing. Well, except maybe his sullen silences. Those weren't a good thing.

Ulfgar Stormcloak had inherited them though. He sat through the petition of a family silently, watching them with a cold stare. Ysold was shocked to realise that he was only ten years old, nearly eleven now. Nothing about him gave that impression.

Already he was nearly Alsfur's own height, who was almost on par with Jon. His face bore little of childhood still in it, and his eyes were devoid of any boyish emotions. It disturbed Ysold slightly. She could still remember the way that Alsfur had been determined to find all the fabled secrets of Windhelm in the first week that they had arrived. He had dragged Jon off with him, when time permitted. She smiled as she remembered how worn out he had been as he slumped into bed in the evenings. Alsfur had never run out of energy; she had to almost force him into bed. And then there was his room. Strangely he had been determined to find out exactly how wide and long it was.

Unfortunately, he had only been given the rudiments of numbers; needed to count money, but little else. It had been a few years before he acquired the skills needed to do so, by which time he had grown bored of the task. But then, it had always seemed a slightly pointless goal, so Ysold couldn't say that she tried to encourage him to continue it with too much too effort.

No, by that time, Alsfur had developed a taste for weaponry. He began his classes in sword and bow when he was thirteen. She had wanted to start them later, but Jon had been unmovable in this regard. A Jarl had to be able to fight. Ysold had grudgingly consented and now he could best almost anyone in the yard, even the master-at-arms. For years now, he had begged to fight Jon, to see how good he really was. Her husband had been less the thrilled at the prospect of being beaten up by his son, and had made Alsfur the promise that he would fight him on his twentieth name day. That was coming up in a few months, and Ysold had teased him about how he could have done it when he was younger. He had only scowled at her, but his frowns were always so funny, and she had paid little attention to it. No one else could see that they had little anger behind them; Jon hated it when he knew he was wrong. Ysold smiled to herself; it would have been much better if he had tried to fight Alsfur years ago. Before the attacks…

Ysold thrust that thought from her mind; it wasn't something she wanted to brood on, but now that she thought about it, she wondered desperately about what was happening in Whiterun with Jon. She had wanted him to take Ulfgar or Alsfur with him, just in case, but had insisted on taking Ralof. Wood was his Housecarl, and loyal, but she had never been able to like him much. There was something about him that pushed her away, and she couldn't identify it. Ysold didn't actually think he would ever actually betray Jon, but still, something about him worried her, and she couldn't shake it.

Ysold snapped her attention back to Ulfgar. He was nearly on the last petitioner, a man captured stealing several chickens. The law was clear in this case, but a Jarl, or his regent in this case, was allowed to pass any verdict he would, provided he could justify it. The man would lose a hand, a common punishment. Even so, it still sickened Ysold; she wasn't sure if she could ever have brought herself to pass a verdict like this one. But Jon could, and that was all that really mattered; she was always here to advise though.

Speaking of which, Ulfgar had proven himself wilfully independent. After a day of Ysold teaching him the workings of a court, Ulfgar had taken it upon himself to oversee all the petitioners. She still signed the paperwork; he wasn't of age yet, and couldn't do anything binding such as removing titles, but he had shown a keen interest in all aspects of the Jarldom.

Ysold hadn't needed to teach him anything about justice either; it seemed a keen hobby of his. All his verdicts followed it to the utmost degree. With a slightly sick feeling, Ysold realised that she already knew what he was going to do.

'My Jarl,' the man began. No one questioned the style; there was nothing for what Ulfgar was as of now. 'I only stole because I needed to feed my children. We are living in an inn. Please, we have no extra money to pay for food. I tried to find work, but there is nothing for me to do.'

Ulfgar Stormcloak watched him, his eyes icy. 'You still broke the law.' Ysold was surprised by how much he sounded like a man in court; it was very disturbing. 'You know the punishment?'

'Yes, my Jarl, but I-'

'The law says that if you steal, you lose the hand that committed the theft. You understand this?'

The man nodded. 'I know the law, but you see I-'

'There is nothing more to be said.' He nodded his head at the guards present in a way of a man twenty years his senior, and they put out a table, grabbing hold of the man. 'Which hand would you prefer to lose?' Ulfgar asked, blackly magnanimously. Ysold felt sick, but if she challenged his authority, he would lose any he had acquired since he took up the throne. _And should he take over one day, would he ever be respected? The Jarl who takes orders from his mother? _Ysold kept her silence.

The man chose his keep his right hand, to favour his left would likely designate him as a mage of some sorts anyway, which might be worse than loosing any limb in the first place. It was quick, but his screams still rang throughout the hall. Ulfgar sent him to see a healer, or a priest for his wound, and then called up the next petitioner.

Suddenly, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Slightly shocked, Ysold turned to see Brunwulf Free-Winter, Jon's Steward, holding a letter.

'My Lady, if you would?'

'Of course,' he told him with a slightly forced smile as the screams rang through her head and followed him from the court. Ulfgar hardly glanced away from the proceedings. Brunwulf led her into a corridor and passed her a letter. It was sealed with the Eastmarchien bear, unbroken, but not pressed down Jon's firm hand. Fear exploded in her stomach, and she suddenly wanted to throw away the letter and never read it, stopping the bad news from ever happening, but Ysold knew she couldn't do that. Instead, she broke the seal with a wavering hand, regarding the scroll carefully as she unrolled it. The news was as bad as it could have been. Her heart sunk, and fear consumed her mind. Brunwulf asked for a look and she passed it to him in a daze. _Jon had an attack in court! Thongvor Silver-Blood has begun another civil war. _She could hardly even believe it; she remembered the last war vividly. Never knowing if Jon would come back, fearing every letter. An even worse thought struck her; Alsfur would have to fight. What if he died? Or if he was crippled? The fear for her family was sickening, and her stomach heaved, threatening to throw up. Brunwulf was looking just as white, but before they could say anything, the great doors of Windhelm creaked open. She frowned, her worries temporarily forgotten as she made her way back into the hall. Her heart leapt when she saw who was standing there: Alsfur.

He strode up the hall confidently. With a pang of surprise and foreboding she noticed Kodaav resting easily on his hip. He was dressed in mail, gloves and steel greaves. A heavy fur cloak only made him seem bigger. His hair was longer and he had the beginnings of a beard. With a feeling of elation, but also a clinging loss, she realised that he had become a man.

Alsfur strode up to the throne, putting his leg up the first step, leaning his arm on it, his head bowed. 'My Jarl, I humbly petition you.' When he looked up he was grinning. Ulfgar returned his grin and rushed down the steps, hugging his brother fiercely. And like that, he was a boy again.

Alsfur hugged him, and then stood, seeing Ysold. 'Mother!' He strode to her, and wrapped her in a bone breaking hug. She was surprised by his strength, and the way he almost picked her like a ragdoll. He let her go, not noticing any of the stares directed at him; only a real man was prepared to hug his mother in front of an entire court. She felt slightly giddy with pride, and as she looked around she noticed that the court was bowing, inclining their heads respectfully. Alsfur took one look. 'Please, rise.' He said it so easily; she almost missed the boy who left her some two months ago.

Carl Alsfur Stormcloak turned his attention to Brunwulf. 'My friend.' They clasped hands and the Thegn looked around, savouring his surroundings. He had been gone a long time. Behind him stood two people, unnoticed by Ysold before; one was a tall young man, possibly of age with Alsfur, while the other was a slightly dark skinned young women. Stormcloak saw her looking and stepped back to let them move forward. 'Mother, may I present the Lady Tavia of Clan Blackmoore. Thane Blackmoore sent her with me to learn the workings of a true court. The man is Carl Erik Blackmoore, the heir to Jarl's Head, son of Tor. The Thane sent them as my wards, under the obligation that they will serve my father on his return.'

Ysold was completely knocked back; now he was taking on wards! It was common enough; to foster a relationship with the Jarl, or his heir, the Thanes and Theyns sent their heirs and children to the higher courts to learn their ways and otherwise integrate themselves with power. Alsfur looked positively thrilled by this and he stood by them happily, as if the idea had been his, which it might have been actually. Ysold decided to humour him.

'Lady Stormcloak,' the girl, Tavia curtsied. Carl Blackmoore inclined his head and spoke awkwardly.

'We look forward to meeting your husband, his Lord Eastmarch, and learning the ways of the Stormcloaks.'

Ysold still didn't approve, but they were polite enough, and seemed genuine. She nodded. 'My hearth is at your service.' It had taken months for that to become a natural reply.

They nodded, and looked ready to turn away, but the letter returned to the forefront of her mind. 'Alsfur,' she said quickly, taking his arm. 'I have a matter I need to discuss with you.'

He looked suddenly thoughtful. 'Can Carl and Lady Blackmoore be present?'

Ysold nodded; she saw no objection in that. She led them away, instructing Brunwulf to dismiss court, beckoned Ulfgar to her, and then led them to the war room. Being there felt strange. It had always very firmly been Jon's domain. But it was vital that they be here now. Brunwulf came in a few seconds later.

Ysold Stormcloak looked around that them all before speaking. 'Thongvor Silver-Blood has rebelled against the King. I have a message calling the banners.' A ripple of shock went through the people in the room. Ysold was about to continue, but then Alsfur spoke.

'This letter is from father?' he asked carefully.

Ysold gave him a look before speaking. 'He is returning even now.' The lie felt sour on her tongue, but it was necessary. He would tell his Thanes when the time was right.

'So, do you want me to call the banners?' Brunwulf asked, his face grim.

Ysold was about to say yes, but then she noticed Alsfur. He was the only person who could really do this now. She turned to him. 'Carl Alsfur?'

He looked shocked as he realised exactly what this meant: the responsibility of calling, and possibly leading, a war. He bit his lip, looking young all of the sudden, but quickly drew himself up again. 'Call the banners.'

Brunwulf nodded and rushed from the room to send the special ravens used for such a time. Alsfur took command, placing his hands on the table. 'Can I see the letter, Mother?' He held out his hand. She instantly recognised it not as a request, but an order. She gave it to him, feeling a little perturbed.

Alsfur looked it over before rolling it up and slipping it into his belt. She wouldn't be getting it back obviously. He rested his hands on the war table and looked around at his fellows. 'The King wants us to meet him at Whiterun, with all our strength.' He turned to Carl Blackmoore. 'Will your father give us his support?'

Blackmoore looked a little offended. 'By his oath.'

Alsfur nodded. 'Good.' He looked over the map, presumably estimating distances. 'Why does His Majesty want all the banners? Surely that will be more than sufficient to defeat Silver-Blood,' he asked of no one in particular.

Blackmoore jumped in before Ysold could say anything. 'I suspect he has more planned for Skyrim's armies, my Thegn.' Alsfur nodded again thoughtfully, and Ysold couldn't help but feel a little unwanted. She smiled wryly to herself when she realised this; it was time to hand things over to the younger generation. She was about to leave, when Brunwulf entered again. Ysold was disturbed to notice the frenzied look in his eye, and the way he made immediately for Alsfur.

'Carl Stormcloak!' Her son turned, and frowned.

'What is it?'

He just shook his head, unbelieving. 'Follow me.'

Alsfur didn't argue. He beckoned for them to fall in behind him and strode from the room, into the main hall. By the throne was-

Ysold almost collapsed in shock. It couldn't be. Ulfric Stormcloak turned to her, his grey eyes darting over her briefly before locking onto Alsfur. His hand was resting on one of the stone armrests of the throne, almost protectively, with slight wonder in his eyes and her son rushed forward, Blackmoore behind him.

'Get back, friend, or we'll have a problem. That is the throne of my father-'

'And mine,' Ulfric said, stepping down the dias.

'What do you mean?' Alsfur asked, his hand curled around his sword. Ulfric noticed this, and curled his lip in disgust.

'That's my sword,' he said, his voice laced with menace. He stepped forward and Alsfur drew it in a smooth rush of steel, levelling it at Ulfric's throat.

'Answer my question, or else you'll have this sword back.' He pressed it forward to make the threat quite clear.

Ysold pushed down her panic and moved to Alsfur's side, holding his shoulder. 'It's Ulfric Stormcloak, your grandfather.'

Ulfric let out a great booming laugh, stepping back. His cold eyes were agleam with dark amusement. 'No, I am not Ulfric.' He inclined his head slightly. 'I am his brother, Ulster Stormcloak, true-born son of Hoag.'

And like that, it all came rushing back. Jon throwing him to the ground, the venom in his eyes… Alsfur looked unsure as to what to do next.

'He is no friend of your father,' Ysold told her son, regaining her calm as she realised that he was not in fact a spectre, but a man.

'Your father is a bastard,' he spat out in response to Ysold's whispering. 'I am his uncle! I come first in the line of succession,' Ulster bellowed.

'Not if he was legitimised,' Alsfur replied coldly. 'Or if the reigning Jarl, my grandfather, said otherwise.'

Ulster Stormcloak stepped back, nodding. 'When does my nephew return?'

'A month, most likely. He'll deal with you them. Until now,' he jerked his head. 'Guards; take him to the dungeons until such a time as we can confirm his identity.'

Two Nords moved forward and to his credit, Ulster just nodded, watching her son with dark anger. 'One of us will be proven true eventually. My cause, or your father's.' Ysold felt cold fear run through her, but her son didn't seem to be affected.

'And I look forward to it,' Alsfur replied icily, slamming Kodaav back into its sheath.

**I hoped you guys liked that. Please review. It's Jon next, and (the real) Ulfric. **


	30. Jon

**I'm really pleased with my work here, if I say so myself, mainly the end. Doing what I've done, I've just delved deeper into the character that is Jon Stormcloak. I realised many things that I never even knew about him, which I really hope you guys will notice. Anyway, not sure if you'll be too happy with this, but, well, there is really nothing to be said except, 'not yet.' **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased you like Ysold's perspective. I can't say anything about any character fates, but Alsfur is very, very capable. If anyone can survive, he can. I'm really am glad you liked the last chapter with its intricate workings, because I was working towards this intricate level of stuff. (Yeah stuff). \I won't be getting the Beta, but if I do get it, I'm creating a Vampire Hunter to go around being cool with incredible slayer skills so I can help towns and then disappear in a flash. As for romance, very possibly. To dinubesleu, thanks for the Story Favourite. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! He was working for the Thalmor King, so he got a Get Out Of Jail Free Card. Ulfgar is just. If that's harsh, then he is. I never thought Alsfur was like Ralof, but maybe he is. Certainly, Ralof would have been like an uncle to him, so who knows? Personally, I think that they are quite different, but if there are any similarities, then yes, Ralof played a part on those. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm not telling you which Stormcloak will die, if any, as that will ruin it. However, reading on may provide a clue. I'm not sure about a Ulster and Ulfric fight, though Alea and Ulfric are back for this chapter. Ysold shares my own feelings in a way that I just don't seem to trust Ralof. I don't know why, he never betrays Jon. It's just a feeling. (A little bit of author insight there). To CauldronCalamity, thanks for the review! Thank you everyone. **

**This is it. A few chapters until the end. The war will begin next part. **

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak **

'**Hello Father,' Jarl Jon Stormcloak **said, looking up at Ulfric Stormcloak, standing next to the Throne of Ysgramor. He was looking young, and proud. His hair was full and yellow, with no sadon, _grey_, and his face was unlined, almost. Even by thirty, Ulfric Stormcloak had endured his hardships. Jon's mother, Alea, sat on the steps. She rested her head on Ulfric's leg, dressed in dazzling white and silver. Ulfric was dressed much the same, with a billowy sleeved shirt and grey leggings. They looked peaceful, but then what else where you in Sovngarde?

Ulfric frowned. 'Jon, greet your mother.'

It wasn't what he had expected, and it made Jon suddenly rahgot, _angry_. 'Oh, that is rich, isn't it? You want to play father now, do you?'

'Jon.' It was Mother. He held back his anger, as he had been forced to do when he was young, living in Solitude, deferent to her authority.

'I was rather hoping you'd be happy to see us,' Ulfric told Jon, stepping down from the dias, putting his hand round the waist of the descending Alea.

'And why's that?' Jon snapped, still very much irritated at seeing his bormah, _father_, so unexpectedly, exactly when he hadn't wanted to see him.

'You've been thinking about us for the last few years,' Mother said gently, coming up to him.

Jon was annoyed that they were privy to his private thoughts, but didn't let it show, instead moving away around them so that his back was to the throne.

'See, I told you he wouldn't want to see us,' Alea hissed at Ulfric, but he shook his head.

'I didn't come here for that,' he snapped. When he spoke again, he was looking at Jon, his eyes hard. 'I came to warn you.'

That piqued the younger Stormcloak's attention. 'Warn me about what?' he asked, still wary.

'It's complicated, Jon. The whole of Skyrim is on the verge of collapse.'

'I can see that,' Stormcloak pointed out, gesturing downward, as if indicating the real world. 'The Silver-Bloods have betrayed the Jun, _King_.'

'Listen to your father,' Mother told him sternly. Jon glanced at her, frowning, but Ulfric's attention was clearly elsewhere now. They waited and Ulfric snapped up suddenly, his luft, _face_, as hard as iron. His jaw grinded slightly as he reigned in his temper.

'King? Balgruuf?' He stepped closer and Jon realised what he was going to say with weary resignation. 'Why did you not take the kingship?' Ulfric asked, a dark frown fixed on his face now. His eyes were unforgiving. It would probably be pointless to argue with him, but suddenly Jon wanted to; he was sick of everyone questioning his decisions, and it came out in an explosive burst of nah, _fury_.

'Maybe I didn't want to be king?' Stormcloak snapped.

'This isn't about what you want, Jon,' Ulfric told him angrily.

'No,' he snarled. 'No, it's not. It's never been my choice has it, Father. First Alduin, then your fucking birthright-'

'You were a bastard farmer,' Ulfric told him dismissively. 'What life was that?' He sounded like he couldn't even comprehend its subtle pleasures. He probably couldn't.

Jon fumed, his miin, _eyes_, burning. 'It was the life I wanted-'

'No, it was the life you were stuck with. You were only too happy to elevate your family up and give them _my_ name-'

'Your name!' Jon stepped up close, so he was facing Ulfric. 'It's mine as well now. I've done more good with it than you ever did,'

'Now, wait a second-' Ulfric began. Mother didn't say anything. She just watched silently.

'You took the Kingship happily, and nearly destroyed Skyrim,' Jon argued furiously.

'QUIET BOY!' Ulfric roared, his temper exploding outwards. His anger was frightening to behold. 'I did my duty! Skyrim needed a king-'

'But it didn't need you,' Jon hissed.

Ulfric stepped back, pulling in his anger, ahraan, _hurt_, etched across his face. 'No,' he nodded. 'It needed you.'

That caught Jon by surprise and his anger fell out of him like a black wave. He stood still, watching his father, his mind comprehending his new information. They were silent for a while, before the Dragonborn spoke again. 'Why me anyway? You have a zeymah, _brother_, did you know?'

Ulfric looked uncomfortable at this. 'No, truly I didn't. Otherwise I might have made him my heir.'

'Might?' Jon asked quietly.

Ulfric looked even more uncomfortable, if that was possible. He moved his jaw, until Mother touched him on the arm and he lifted his head to look directly into Jon's eyes. 'He would never have done. You are my son. You were the only successor, true born or not.' He shifted his weight, before speaking again. 'I am proud of you, really. You've made a better Jarl than I.'

Jon was about to respond, but then Alea took his arm, directing them to seats at the huge feast table set out before the throne. They all sat, and Ulfric's son swallowed before answering his father's remark. 'Thank you.' He looked at his mother, a little uncertain, but her face told him to say what needed saying. 'I'm sorry, father-' He stopped, trying to work up his courage, but Ulfric interrupted him.

'-for killing me? Don't be; I needed to die. Besides, I let you kill me.'

Something about this prideful remark made Jon laugh all of a sudden, and Ulfric joined in. Their laughter boomed out through the hall while Alea watched in nahlot, _silence_, confused.

'What do you mean?' she asked them.

Ulfric Stormcloak held in his laughter with visible effort. 'I let Jon kill me. There was no way he could have done it by himself.'

'I did do it by myself,' Jon told her, but in reality he knew that it wasn't true.

Mother just stared at them as they chuckled together. Ulfric punched Jon's arm lightly and she shook her head, muttering; 'Stormcloaks.'

Ulfric got over his mirth and placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. 'How is your family?'

Suddenly, it felt more like an old family reunion than a prophetic dream, which was strange, but somehow… normal. 'Very good,' he said.

'Is the wife you keeping you busy?' he asked, ignoring Alea's scandalised look.

'As always.'

Ulfric nodded, smiling and drank some wine from his goblet, placed ready since the moment Jon arrived. Alea reached over for some food and started filling up a plate, suddenly talkative.

'We've seen your sons, Jon. We are both very proud.' He turned a little sombre. 'Our greatest regret is that we will never meet them.'

Jon nodded, a little tiiraaz, _sad_, as well, before the obvious answer came to him. 'Why don't you come to us in a dream like this? You could meet them then?'

'Would that we could,' Mother answered, her face grim. 'It's a power only a dragon holds, being able to communicate through dream.' Not for the first time, Jon was amazed at what it meant to be half dovah; there were still so many things he didn't understand.

'So,' Ulfric began, taking the plate Alea gave him, filled with food. Jon was surprised to see that one had been placed in front of him too. Cautiously he took a bite. The food tasted good, but left no fulfilment. The same didn't seem to apply to his parents. 'I've seen your boy, Alsfur. He will make a fine Jarl.' Jon nodded, as Ulfric continued. 'I liked the way he took charge when he returned from Amol.' He noticed his son's look. 'He has done well at the fort, and earned the support of many nobles. He's a true Stormcloak.'

Jon felt strangely flattered, even though he wasn't being complimented. 'He is a good son, as is Ulfgar.'

'I haven't seen much of your second,' Ulfric said as he ripped off a hunk of bread.

'I have,' Mother said, taking Jon's hand. Her touch was cold and thin, as if it didn't quite exist. Her kul, _son_, shuddered involuntarily. 'He will make a fine companion to Alsfur. He is just, and commanding.'

Jon felt a little disturbed at that.

Ulfric changed the topic. 'Will you fight in the war?'

'I'll have to I suppose,' Jon said, picking at his food. 'Balgruuf will never win without me supporting him.'

'What about Alsfur?' Alea asked.

Jon frowned, not understanding her meaning. 'Alsfur?'

'Why doesn't he lead your forces?' she elaborated, cutting up a slice of ham.

That was something hadn't thought about. 'I suppose he could-'

'If you don't go, Heir Windhelm will die.'

Jon turned towards the familiar voice, standing as he did so. It was Paarthurnax, much to Jon's surprise. The great dovah, _dragon_, was curled up under the throne, watching the Dragonborn.

'Here to pick us up?' Ulfric asked, bitterly.

Paarthurnax nodded, but kept his eyes fixed on Jon. 'If you go to kein, _war_, Dovahkiin, hin fen dir. _You will die_.' Cold fear sunk through Jon's bones, in a way that he had never experienced before. He felt light of breath, and dizzy.

'If I don't go to war, Alsfur will die?' Jon sat heavily, his eyes wide as a strange sense of loss settled in his heart. 'If I don't go…' he murmured. Pictures of Ysold shot through his mind as if his brain was desperately trying cling onto images that were already fading. Jon shook his head, looking up to regard Paarthurnax, his eyes desperate. 'Can you promise he will survive if I do go?'

'No,' the great dragon said. He looked around the hall, before fixing his eyes on Ulfric and Alea, who didn't seem troubled by this news. _The dir, _dead_, have little care for the living, in reality, _Jon reflected grimly_. _'Now, Windhelm, and Lady Windhelm, it is time to leave,' Paarthurnax told them.

Alea kissed Jon's forehead, but he didn't even notice it, lost as he was in his thoughts. Ulfric grasped his arm. 'The King draws near, my son.' And then they left. Stormcloak looked up, catching one final, unsatisfying, glimpse of them before he fell back into Mundus.

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak woke slowly, **his vision blurring back into focus. With a start, he recognised Balgruuf, sitting on a chair, watching him.

'Finally awake, eh?' His face gave none of the humour that was forced into his words. Jon glanced around and saw Ralof standing in the corner, eyeing Balgruuf angrily. The King ignored his look. 'I'm glad you are finally up. You look better than you did a few days ago.'

Reality struck Jon suddenly. His eyes opened properly and the dream came rushing back to him. Seeing Balgruuf reminded Stormcloak of Ulfric's words; _The King draws near. _Jon's eyes flitted to Wind-Shifter, but somehow that didn't seem right. _Where do I remember that name from? _he thought, trying to rack his tired brain with some determination.

He gave up, and tried a different tack in clearing up the questions in his hahdrim, _mind_. 'Where am I? How long have I been here?'

'Dragonsreach, for three days,' Balgruuf said succinctly.

Jon nodded, accepting this fact. It was difficult. With another jolt, he realised that everyone had witnessed his attack. He cringed to think about the consequences, and his look must have shown on his face because Balgruuf leaned in, touching his shoulder.

'I don't care, about anything Alduin left you with.' He looked like he was trying to force down a zahkrii, _sword_, with his next words. 'Carl Wood's words were well said, and painfully true.'

'What did he say?' Jon looked to Ralof, but he shrugged lightly, not answering.

Balgruuf glanced at him, his expression still one of distaste. 'Enough. I think you'll want to know what happened after you passed out?' Jon nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. The look in Balgruuf's eyes suggested that it wouldn't be good. 'Silver-Blood fled the city to raise his forces. We are expecting them within the next month or so. Likely as not, he'll come here, to unseat me.'

'What about the other Jarls? Have you called the banners?' Jon asked weakly.

Balgruuf's face took on a pained look. 'Yes, I have. So far, Jarl Idgrod of Morthal, Winter of Winterhold, Merilis of Dawnstar and your own son, Alsfur of Windhelm have either pledged their loyalty, or in your son's case, sent a raven confirming my command. You should be proud, Jon. He seems very capable.'

Jon didn't feel all that kah, _proud_. Anyone could give out compliments if the person in question had done what they had wanted. Mostly though, Paarthurnax's words returned to him. _It's my life, or Alsfur's. _The icy fear crept through his limbs again, but Balgruuf continued on oblivious to his feelings.

'The others, I suspect, will join me, but I can't be sure. I intend to rally my forces here. After we defeat Silver-Blood, we will join up with the Empire.'

'Which Jarls are undecided?' Jon was finding it hard to concentrate. His brain felt light, and devoid of su, _air_.

Balgruuf didn't say anything about Jon's sharpness of mind; clearly he was in a sympathetic mood. 'I expect Elisif Kingsblood to send word in a few days, or when she reaches Solitude. She left the city before I could secure her allegiance. I'm expecting Black-Briar to join Silver-Blood, but by then we'll have overwhelming odds; Siddgeir will join for that guarantee, if nothing else.' He sat back, looking confident. 'I expect to destroy him within a month or two. From there, I'll appoint a more worthy Jarl, perhaps Thongvor's brother, and then turn my attention to the real threat; the Thalmor.'

Jon didn't say anything; Paarthurnax's words were weighing heavily on his mind; too heavily for comfort. He just nodded.

Balgruuf stood. 'Get well soon, Jon.' He was about to leave, but stopped, and regarded the Dragonborn wearily, as if ashamed to ask what he was about to. 'Will you fight with me, Jon? Or do you want to pass over command to Alsfur Stormcloak?' The Jarl looked at him, still unsure after hearing Paarthurnax's warning, and Balgruuf nodded when he recognised the look on his friend's face. 'Give me your answer by the end of the day.' And with that, he left.

Ralof moved up to Jon, but the Jarl waved his hand as much as he could, and with a concerned glance, Wood left, leaving Stormcloak alone with his thoughts.

Now he was alone, the vahzah, _true_, meaning of Paarthurnax's words slammed into him. _If I go to war, I will die, but if I don't Alsfur will. _It was a simple choice in many respects; whose life meant more? The answer came easily enough to Jon; Alsfur's. But when he looked into it more closely, was that true? It was cruel to say, but he had another healthy, promising young son. His position as the Dragonborn was incredibly influential among the Nords, and against the Thalmor. But most importantly, secretly, selfishly, Jon didn't want to die. _Nobody ever said I was selfless. I never was, was I?_ He thought back; everything he had ever done, everything he truly loathed in his life, such as his defeat of Alduin, his taking of the important Stormcloak legacy, his battle against Miraak, had been for others. _Perhaps I am more selfless than I ever knew? But I don't want to die. _

The faas, _fear,_ that grabbed him when he let this thought enter his mind threatened to suffocate him. He thought of Ysold, and what it would be like if he was gone. She would be alone, but would she blame him for that? Which did Ysold value more; her husband's life, or her son's. _I'll die eventually, _Jon thought desperately. _Alsfur's life is the promise of something new, and fresh. I'm done. _But was he? _I have so much more to give; I'll make it up for Alsfur's death. I'll live the life he should have had! _The thought sickened Jon though. If Alsfur survived, he knew he would be truly, and utterly, damned. He had little else to offer now. In this regard it made sense, perfect sense, for Alsfur to live, but it didn't make anything easier. Now he was faced by it, Jon cringed away from death. It was selfish, but wasn't it also human? There were people that he would leave behind; Ulfgar would miss out on a father, and was Alsfur ready to be Jarl? Ysold would be husbandless and what about Balgruuf. What about Ralof? His Housecarl would feel like a failure, and curse himself for not being able to protect his Jarl. _That's wrong, especially if I know that I'm going to cause that pain through my actions. Actions that Ralof would never be able to control… _

Jon sank down into himself, but he knew he had only had one choice, so he called back Ralof, and uttered the words that his very voice protested against, hoping against hope that it would save Alsfur;

'I'm going to war.'

**Well, it sucks. However, prophecies can be wrong. Anyway, please review. **


	31. Duty

**An Assur chapter. I added some stuff about the Dragonborn so that other things will make sense later, and because it was fun to write. **

**The thanks; To Delphine hater, thanks for the reviews! Jon was pretty conflicted, but then who wouldn't be? It's not an easy decision. Alsfur does have more promise, so that if nothing else is worth it, I guess. Jon would be more useful as obviously, he has experience and his prestige, and so yes, it will be a problem, but there you go. Skyrim as a whole can marshal about 130,000 men. Clans like Silver-Blood and Stormcloak can marshal about 20,000 men, while Winter can only marshal about 10,000, at most. So, it's a little bit of a hit and run, but there you go. Very large armies, much larger than your normal medieval society or any other province (remember, Nords are a warrior race, so most men take up arms. In reality, only half or so of their men are true soldiers though, eg part of a standing 'army'.) To dinubesleu, thanks for the Follower! To DragonXander, thanks for the review! We'll see if I surprise you, but I who knows. I agree with the serious thing; you need to put in breaks. The King's identity will be revealed, and it is fairly obvious, I think. But then, it isn't. To Infamy70, thanks for the Favourite, Follower and Story Favourite! Thanks to everyone for the support! **

**I forgot to mention, but we have 300 review! Hell yeah. Thanks to everyone for that, and I guess out next goal is to see how quickly we can get to 400! If everyone who reads this (including you Followers and Favouriters) reviews we can get there damn quickly! So, yeah, that's great. Thank you to you guys, and all you readers. **

**Less exciting but very important. I threw in some interesting lore on the Dragonborn (and yes, it is my own lore. Todd Howard never thought this stuff up, so it's not 'canon.') **

**Assur Winter **

'**Those with the dragon blood **are rare. The Septims are the most famous dynasty in history to possess the gift, but otherwise the true extent of these talents is unknown, though we have identified them as hereditary, most of the time.'

'What talents?' Onmund asked. They were sitting in a lecture. The last few weeks they had been concentrating on mythology, and today's lesson was focusing on the Dragonborn. They had already covered tales from Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, Black Marsh and Morrowind. Now, they were on Skyrim, and Assur Winter was already absorbing the information like a dying man who hadn't eaten in years. It was strange to be so interested in something, especially as he felt more powerful every time he exited a class. _Knowledge is power, after all. _Assur turned his attention back to Onmund's question.

'The Dragonborn's abilities are largely unknown. Even with one alive, Jarl Stormcloak of Windhelm, we have only been able to glean very little. From what has been passed down in old tales, it is said they have exceptionally keen eyesight. They can see a falcon in the night sky, but certain puzzles allude them. In addition the Dragonborn have been credited with enhanced reflexes and strength, but looking at our own example in Jarl Stormcloak, I find this unlikely,' their Wizard Lecturer, Phinis Gestor, added. 'Now, can we move on?' he asked, raising his eyebrows. 'Good. Can anyone tell me how the Dragonblood first came to Tamriel?'

Assur knew this. 'Akatosh blessed St. Alessia with the dragonblood for her ancestors, in addition to other individuals. However, the Nordic legend says Kynareth gave his gift to man.'

'Yes, very good. It has been around for centuries, but we are now on what the legends call the 'Last Dragonborn.' Believe what you will,' he said, arranging his notes, ready to finish this line of discussion, in the way he always did.

'So, all Dragonborn can absorb dragon souls?' another student asked. Assur turned to watch him, interested in the answer. He hadn't considered this aspect of it; the answer had seemed fairly obvious.

'Yes,' Gestor said, looking miffed that they hadn't moved on yet. 'But that said, they don't all "learn" draconic instinctively. Often you'll find that the offspring of a Dragonborn inherit several of his, or her, powers, but,' he frowned, as if trying to decide on an answer; 'to a lesser extent. Perhaps they don't gain his or her strength, or the ability to use the thu'um instinctively. Sometimes they don't inherit anything, but that is not often seen in the few cases we have been able to observe.'

'So, their offspring do absorb dragon souls?' the student confirmed.

'No,' Gestor said, looking very annoyed now. 'I never said that. The offspring, likely as not, do not inherit the ability to absorb dragon souls. The case is very rare.' He moved on quickly before they could ask another question on this, rarely seen, interesting topic. 'Now, enough of that, I want you to all go the Arcadian and research a legend, from any culture. You are to present it next lesson.' Moaning rang out through the classroom and the students got to their feet, picking up their sheets of parchment. Assur didn't mind this task; he enjoyed absorbing himself in new information. That, and it gave him time to think.

Recently he had been thinking a lot more about Birna. He had begun to dominate his thoughts as he sat among books, reading about dragons, and the feelings that were associated with her were… embarrassing to say the least. He hadn't talked to Onmund about it yet, and was reluctant to anyway. To distract himself, Assur had begun reading about ancient families, including his own. It came as a surprise to him that they, the Winter's, had long been allies to the Stormcloaks, ever since the defeat of Alduin, in which both Clans had worked together. _If there was any of that alliance nowadays, it's well hidden, _Assur contemplated silently.

Thoughts of that brought back memories of his father. He wondered where he was, and what he was doing. Assur had heard some news about the court; Father was probably there, but he couldn't be sure. In truth, he was unnerved by the lack of any attempt to try and get him back. Surely Father cared about his heir enough to send a party of men to take him away? That said, Assur didn't want to be kidnapped, but he just wanted a point to be proven, to show that Father did give a damn about him. Assur was aware there was something unhealthy about this desire, so he tried to put it from his mind but it was too confusing, and sent painfully familiar feelings of inadequacy through him, so Assur tried to ignore it as best as he could.

He followed Brelyna and Onmund up the steps and into the Arcadian, the library. It was a large room, with books and scrolls lining the wall. The Librarian, an Orc called Urag gro-Shub, watched them as they entered, loud and boisterous, with a severe frown distorting his features. Assur made for the section they had on the Dragonborn; Gestor's lecture had piqued his interest, and he was desperate to find out more. Onmund followed him, and they started searching through the shelves for anything that would sate their hunger. Brelyna moved on to search for anything to do with hereditary magic.

The section on the Dragonborn was painfully small, but there were a few interesting books. Assur slumped down into a corner to pour through it, bringing up his quill and ink to mark down anything he found useful. The first thing that jumped out at him was the word 'Dovahkiin.' It meant 'Dragonborn' in draconic. Enthused massively by this finding, Assur started reciting it in his tongue. It didn't sound right though; the word lacked power, or conviction. He tried changing up the sound, to no avail. A pang of annoyance rushed through him. Assur's mind drifted off to Jarl Stormcloak, the Last Dragonborn. He wished desperately that he could sit down with him and get the Jarl to repeat phrases in draconic, so that he could get a better hold on the words, and the language. He knew he could do it if he had a mentor to run it through with.

Assur Winter turned to Onmund with the intention of consulting with him in regard to his problem to find the Nord engrossed at a chapter marked 'Draconic Legends', before deciding against it. If Assur couldn't speak the word properly, it was unlikely that Onmund would be able to do anything but the same.

Assur turned the page, the word ringing through his head, and onto signs of a Dragonborn. Their eyes often had distinctive patterns; the Septims, for example, long held as the easiest form of a Dragonborn, had dark purple eyes rimmed in a light gold. The effect was supposed to be quite intimidating, and it was actually used as a way of scaring dragons, though Assur was highly sceptical of its ability to do this. He continued on; their voices cut through the air like butter, ripping apart other sounds. He started making notes on this, and continued on, getting engrossed in how the power first came to mortals. From there he moved onto a debate; 'How far can the Dragonborn really be considered half-dragon and half-mortal?' Assur read through the side supporting this view, but as he was about to begin the counter argument a man came up and tapped him on the shoulder.

'What is it?' Assur asked, putting aside his book.

'Messengers for you, from the Jarl.'

A feeling of cold dread sunk through Assur, and his legs felt like lead as he hauled himself up. He had wanted this, but now suddenly, he didn't. Winter followed the messenger down the halls of the college and out into the snow, his stomach tight with anticipation. His robes whipped around him as the wind hit the two of them, nearly knocking him back. His auburn hair was whipped up, but Assur continued on, his feet sinking deep into the cold, white snow. The Winter's of Winterhold's blood was cold already, some said, so the blizzard barely bothered Assur, but his companion was not a Winter, nor even a Nord, and he was clearly feeling its bite.

They continued on, treading carefully over the icy bridge linking the college to the town of Winterhold. Assur nearly slipped and fell, but caught himself, hanging briefly over a hundred foot drop, the icy water swirling past far below him. It didn't help to soothe his racing heart. Eventually they exited the bridge, and Assur waited for his blood to slow as two Nords, dressed in tough leather with white surcoats, approached, watching his companion with a degree of suspicion as if he was about to suddenly launch into a magic attack on them. Assur thought it was ironic that they were scared of his companion, but not him, who was likely more powerful. He rubbed his hands together, and waited for them to speak.

'Thegn Assur, the Jarl has sent us to speak to you,' one them, a large, balding man, began.

Winter felt a strange mix of anticipation, and fear at this. 'He's here in Winterhold?' Assur desperately hoped not.

'By raven, Thegn. He commanded us to bring you back.'

Assur felt deflated, like a child who had fun at a party, but realises there is nothing he can do to stop it ending, but also a little satisfied, as if he and his father had been playing a game of wills, which he just won. Even so, he didn't want to go back, though he had expected this, not now that he was just learning his true potential. But then, the Winter line needed an heir. That thought made him think of Brina, which was disconcerting, but also a little invigorating. Luckily this uncomfortable thought was broken by one of the men.

'Will you come with us, Thegn?' This time they didn't sound respectful, more… commanding. Assur wasn't used to hearing such a tone from a man like him, and it caught him off guard a little. But he didn't want to go, whatever else happened, and he needed to make that clear to them.

'A few more months. I will return to take up my duties, I promise, but not now.' He expected that to be it, but clearly the men weren't prepared to listen to that.

'Silver-Blood has begun a rebellion against the King. The Jarl needs you by his side, not…' he looked angry as he tried to find his next words; 'playing with a freak show up in some mountain!'

'What are you saying?' Assur asked coldly, ignoring the surprising news about Silver-Blood, his eyes chips of white ice.

'We're taking you with us, whether you like it or not,' he said, drawing his axe. His fellow did the same, and Assur stepped back. His companion moved forward, his arms raised, but one of the men cut him down. He fell to the ground, his face ripped open by the sword with a crunch. Blood began to soak through the white, corrupting it and it covered the surcoat of the man who had done the deed. Assur noticed these details weakly, in a burst of sudden fear and incredulity.

They came forward, and the balding man reached out his hand, grabbing Winter. With a sudden burst of anger Assur whipped out his hand into the man's face. There was a burst of white light, and he was thrown into a pillar flanking the entrance to the bridge. There was the crack of bone, and he fell lifeless to the ground. Assur hardly noticed him, instead calling the wind to his palm. The snow lurched inwards, into his reach, and stayed, swirling around his hand. The men looked frightened but moved forward anyway, screaming a war-cry. Assur thrust out his hand and a sizable chunk of the icy blizzard slammed into the man, throwing him off his feet, and freezing him. Icicles covered the Nord's beard as Assur stumbled up to him, shocked by his own power, and what he had just done with it. The body was frozen; it looked like it had been attacked by ice. _It? _Winter thought, shocked._ Is that all life is to me now? _The thought traumatized Assur, and his mind closed in on itself, trying to block out the guilty feelings that raced inwards. He felt sick and his head spun. His energy had been drained, but he felt a warmth creep through his body, and not the freezing sensation he had suffered only a few moments before.

His mind light and dizzy, and his hands burning, Assur started walking, away from the college, through the snow. Everyone was inside, but he pulled up his hood anyway and stumbled on until he found himself pressed up against a door. The sudden realisation came to him, the true price of his murder, and Winter threw up, choking in the snow as tears ran down his face. He stared at the wood through blurry eyes as it opened, throwing him onto the floor. Birna's voice caught in his ears and he picked himself up, wiping away his tears viciously, feeling weak and useless. She was kneeling on the floor next to him, her brown eyes filled with concern.

'Assur? I thought you were gone?'

Her voice brought him back to reality. Assur dried his mouth on his sleeve and looked at her, blinking to clear his vision. 'I killed somebody,' he whispered. It tumbled out before he could rein it back in.

Birna frowned, but she didn't look shocked, more curious. 'Where have you been all this time? I heard rumours that you were at the college.'

Assur stood, still shaky as his head spun. _I killed two men. _He felt soiled, but managed to speak anyway. 'The rumours were true.' As he thought about the college, he also thought about magic. Absurdly, Assur felt a rush of pride at how easily he had taken down those men; it was a feat that few mages could actually do, and it had felt instinctive. With a guilty feeling, Winter realised that he wanted to actually use magic like that again. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude-'

'It's fine,' she said quickly before taking his hand and leading him into her bedroom. Birna sat him on the bed, and exited the room to make a drink. Assur watched her go, perplexed by the sudden turn in events. _It couldn't have been more than an hour ago that I was researching the Dragonborn. Now… _Assur stood hastily as Birna came back in, taking the drink from her hands gratefully. He nodded his head in thanks and moved to a window. The storm was getting fiercer. It would be suicide to try and brave it, even in the short distance to the college, and he leant against the wall, wondering what the hell had just gone wrong. He had been a student, and now he was a murder. The guilt slammed into him, making him feel tired, tired of everything. But even so, he felt Birna behind him, and a crazy thought entered his head. His adrenaline was still going, pumping through his blood and filling him with a searing fire. Assur Winter turned to see Birna looking shy in the corner, watching him with big eyes. The absurdity of his situation came back, but this time Assur didn't care. With Birna, a drink in his hand, he was happy. It was an odd feeling, mixed with another which he couldn't identify.

'Can I stay here tonight?' Assur asked, suddenly.

Birna nodded.

**Please review! We'll see if we can reach 400 review! I have a surprise in store for you next time, so I'll see what you think. Two more chapters until the end of this Part, and then the war will kick off in force. **


	32. The Labyrinth

**The next chapter. I really enjoyed writing this one. I mean, I really got caught up in it. Normally I don't write travel scenes, but this was fun. **

**The thanks; To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Yes, I have, and I will credit you when it really starts taking effect. Or I'll just mention it next Assur chapter. The Thalmor have about 100,000 men as well under their command (huge armies for a medieval society), but they have a degree of magic. The Legion comprises of about 300,000 men, HOWEVER, some of that is Skyrim, so in reality High Rock controls some 70,000 and the Empire itself some 150,000 ish. But remember, it is almost impossible to think that these kind of armies would ever meet on the same field. The most you'd get is a battle of 50,000 men and that would be HUGE. This is just a total strength report. Assur will go back and I would say he has a little more than a crush on Birna. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Magic under Assur will become very cool. Glad you're enjoying Dragonblood. The war is starting next chapter. Thanks to everyone who posted a review of Favourited etc. **

**Now, who said he was dead? **

**Nelkir White**

**The room was cold stone**. At least he thought it was a room, but he couldn't be sure. Snow swirled around everywhere, blocking his view of anything. Nelkir White turned in a circle, squinting. The cold just seemed on the edge of his consciousness, but it didn't touch him. Rather it pressed against his body, squeezing and compressing his mind. He stumbled forward, trying to escape the oppressive fog. Suddenly a huge pair of doors loomed in front of him. He jerked back, startled but pushed them open to appear in a long corridor. Nelkir frowned; the cold was still pressing against him but as he stepped up he corridor he began to feel warmer, almost as if he was meant to be here. The corridor was dark and foreboding. The walls pressed against him, but Nelkir didn't feel fear, or uncertainty. In fact, as the dark pressed closer, he felt better. But then, the voice.  
_**Go back. You are no ready**__._  
_For what!_ he hissed. _I'll go wherever I want._  
_**Will you now? I don't think so, young one.**_  
A force slammed into Nelkir and he was thrown back, out of the dream in a sudden burst of air, winding him.  
**Nelkir White woke, breathing heavily** and lay back, feeling sick. He rested his head back against the wooden bars of the prison carriage as it trundled down the mud road, bouncing and shifting. That was the first time he had managed to get a decent nights sleep since he woke up in the carriage... _was it three weeks ago?_ _It can't have been more than a month._ But then, his jaw was covered in an adolescent beard, which took at least a month to reach the stage it had. Nelkir wished he had a dagger to shave it off but it would be stupid to ask their guard for anything. He and his companion had barely spoken a word to him, or the other five men Nelkir shared the carriage with, but that _was_ the way White preferred it anyway. He sank back into his melancholy silence, watching the scenery past back, all mountains and jagged rock.  
'Do you know what the time is?'

Nelkir jerked up. 'What was that?'  
'I asked you the time.' It was another boy, maybe a year older than himself. He was an Imperial, the fates only knew what he doing in Skyrim, with dark hair, and keen brown eyes. His skin was tanned, and his face unremarkable.  
Nelkir looked up at the sky. The sun was nearing the ground. 'It must be five, in the afternoon.'  
The other boy nodded. 'Name's Marco Atticus.'  
_Why do I care?_ Nelkir thought. He was reluctant to give up his name. In Skyrim few did but he responded anyway, out of courtesy. 'Nelkir.'  
Marco nodded. 'Right.' He waited, before raising his eyebrow and leaning forward. 'No surname?'  
'Only nobles have surnames. And bastards,' he added, curling his mouth in distaste.  
'What's to say you're neither?' he pressed.  
'Mind your own business,' Nelkir snapped angrily, his mind flashing back to his own bastard birth. 'You want a surname?' Those born without surnames often took on the city where they had been born. To say Whiterun might draw too much attention to his true birth, which Nelkir didn't want. If he was going to take Stormcloak's advice, he would do it properly. He briefly considered Windhelm, out of respect for the Dragonborn, but he had never been there before and people would ask. He disliked Riften although he had been to Solitude, so it seemed the only logical choice.  
'My name's Nelkir of Solitude. Just call me Solitude.' He closed his eyes, trying to get back to enjoying what life he had left in this godforsaken carriage.  
'So, why are you here?' Marco asked.  
Nelkir opened his eyes, annoyed now. 'Look, we'll be dead by the end of the next week, so what does it matter how we got here?' Marco pursed his lips.

'Life's in the journey,' he countered.

White gritted his jaw, frowning at such a naïve response. 'You don't really believe that, do you?'

'Why not?' Marco asked, watching White carefully.

Nelkir shook his head and rested it back against the bars, closing his eyes and ignoring the Imperial. He imagined going back to the hall again, but it didn't happen. It seemed that he was still locked out by the Voice. He opened his eyes and glanced at Marco to see him talking to another prisoner, possibly trying to figure out an escape. _Fool. It will gain you nothing. We are in the middle of nowhere. _He sat back, trying to ignore the two men, but they continued on, making pictures in the dust lining the floor of the cell. Nelkir glared at them, but still they continued. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.

'It will achieve nothing.'

Marco looked up. 'What did you say?'

'Escaping; it will achieve nothing,' Nelkir told him.

The Imperial frowned, baffled. 'Why not?'

His stupidity made Nelkir angry. 'Do you even know Skyrim?' Marco shook his head reluctantly.

'Right. There are bandits out there,' he said, indicating the rocks that surrounded them. 'If you survive those, you'll find that the people aren't much better,' Nelkir finished cynically.

Marco sat back, processing this new information. The Bastard closed his eyes again, confident that Marco wouldn't have anything else to say. But he did.

'Why does that make this cell any better than that?'

Nelkir scowled, and sat up, his attention on the Imperial properly now. 'It doesn't. That's the point. Life is shit, and the sooner you realise that, the sooner you can move on.' White was about to go back into his original position, but Marco wasn't done. He was more persistent than Nelkir had originally thought.

'I think you're wrong.'

_Good for you, _the Bastard thought mockingly, but he didn't say anything. Instead he closed his eyes, tired of trying to bring the Imperial round to reason. Nelkir had been given a full five minutes, he thought, of silence before Marco spoke again.

'You're a cynical bastard aren't you?'

Nelkir's anger threatened to surface, but he forced it down. 'Only as cynical as the world's made me,' he spat through gritted teeth. _And only as much of bastard as they branded me. _

Marco had the good grace not to inquire and sat back against the bars, despondent. Nelkir sighed and stared at the roof of their cell, made of wood, which was a mercy, as it was raining heavily. The mud was occasionally knocked up from the wheels, hitting Nelkir's legs with spots of dark mud. He let out a breath of annoyance, about to close his eyes, before it happened.

_**Men are coming**__. _

Nelkir snapped up, fully alert. In the distance he could just about hear the pounding of hooves. He rushed to the cell bars, and peered out into them. It was difficult to see through the rain, but he managed to make out shapes.

_**You will only have one chance. As soon as they come, run.**_

The Bastard didn't even argue with the Voice this time; it was good advice. He pushed aside Marco, who was sitting by the door of the cell, ignoring the Imeprial's protests. Nelkir glanced into the rain; the hooves were audible now, and the other prisoners were sitting up in alarm. Nelkir heard shouts from the guards as he threw his weight against the door. It rattled; luckily it was as loose as a drunk Breton. He tried again as the bandits swept out of the rocks, shouting war cries. Nelkir glanced round. He wasn't surprised to see Forsworn warriors. They were obviously in The Reach. White slammed at the bars again, and this time his fellow prisoners had caught onto what he was doing. They shouting out words of encouragement and panic as Nelkir gritted his teeth, shifting his position to kick it down. He let his leg fly out, and it slammed into the door, cracking one of the wooden hinges with a loud snap. Nelkir heard cries of battle from the front of the convoy, and slammed a foot into the wood again. Pain lanced through his leg but he ignored it and kicked again. The hinges broke, and Nelkir got to his feet, before launching himself into the door. It broke with an ear splitting crack and the Bastard fell to the ground. Mud and splinters filled his mouth, and pain beat his back mercilessly, as if trying to keep him down.

Nelkir managed to pull himself off the ground, his body aching, and glanced back at his fellow prisoners. They were almost paralysed, staring out at the rain as the sounds of combat echoed out from the front. _It won't be long before the Forsworn come round to investigate the prisoners, and then… _He shuddered slightly at the thought of being captured, before focusing on his current problem.

_**Leave them. Go now**__, _The Voice told him, but Nelkir shook his head. They were getting out of this together. He moved forward towards them, his mind racing from the absurdity of his plan.

'Come on, let's go,' he told them, gesturing out into the raining landscape. His hair was soaked, going from a golden blond to a dark yellow.

One of the Nords shook his head. 'We'll die if we go out there.'

Nelkir couldn't believe it. 'But you'll die in there,' he told him, astounded, the disbelief entering his voice.

'The Forsworn might treat us well.'

The sounds of fighting were dying down. They would likely loot their victims before checking on the prisoners. They had less than a minute. 'Fine, be a slave. Those that want to live, follow me. I'll see that you live, you have my word.' The Bastard felt an icy rush streak through him. Before, when people knew of his birth, his word was worth less than dirt, and so he had never bothered to give it. Now, though; he felt held down by his promise, but he had meant it. And it worked. These men who hardly knew him were prepared to follow him. They jumped from the carriage, and Nelkir's brain rushed through a plan of action. _We need to get into the mountains, and lose the Forsworn. _

White motioned for them to follow him and then started sprinting for a rocky rise by the side of the road. He slid over the top of it, not realising it dropped down another five feet on the other side. Nelkir landed heavily, but luckily the others had followed him with no regard for their own safety and fell with him. It wasn't a long drop, but even so the moans were likely to attract the Forsworn. Nelkir hushed them with a gesture and they stayed stock still, silent as a grave, waiting to see if the Forsworn had heard.

He only heard the pounding of the rain, and Nelkir's heart rate slowed as he came back to himself. _That was close. _Suddenly a head popped out over the rocks. The Forsworn man's eyes lit up in shock before he sounded out a cry.

'Run!' Nelkir cried, pushing the group forward into the maze of stone that made up the mountainous hillside. They started running but Nelkir heard an arrow whizz past him. He felt its tip slice his skin, sending out a stream of sparkling blood that mixed with the rain. The Bastard's heart hammered in his chest as he stumbled forward, into the dark passages of rock. Nelkir's dream came vividly back. The group was still running, and he studied them trying to see if anyone had been hit properly by the arrow before he tripped, hitting the ground in a scrape of sharp pain. White let out a curse, slamming his hand to the ground to push himself up, and pressing it deep into a mound of flesh. Nelkir recoiled, barely having time to register the face of a dead Nord, and the Forsworn arrow in his back, before shooting off after his companions.

He caught up with the others, breathing hard, as they slumped among the rocks of a granite small 'valley', wedged between two cliff faces. Nelkir's breaths came out in great gulping burst, his adrenaline pumping his blood relentlessly through his veins with such force it almost hurt. White looked around at his companions as a wave of guilt rushed through him _I promised to protect that man. I gave him my word and I broke it. _What did that say about him? Was he untrustworthy? Treacherous? Maybe they were right about bastards. _They'll smile at you, as they work the dagger into your back. _Guilt weighed Nelkir down, but another voice crept through, his own, not the Voice; _what could you have done? If they had left earlier, they would be alive, but now… is it really your fault? No_, Nelkir decided, _it's not_. _My duty is to the others now; they need a leader, and somehow I've ended up as one_. _I need to be strong._

Nelkir White pushed off the dark thoughts, his attention returning to the men under his trust. He strode forward, clapping one's shoulder, with the uncomfortable thought that he was trying too hard to be a leader now. He refrained from touching anyone else and stepped into the middle of the group.

'I don't want anyone getting comfortable. We'll make for Markarth before the Forsworn can find us.' The others looked surprised by this prediction, but it was the confidence in his voice stunned Nelkir. He didn't let it show though, keeping his face impassive.

'How do you know we're near Markarth?' one man asked. He was good looking, but that was all that could be said for him. His step had the arrogant look of a good thief, and his eyes danced with sadistic amusement.

'Simple. We're in The Reach and were on the main road,' Nelkir replied succinctly.

'If we're so close, then let's just wait. We can all rest and wait out their search,' the thief countered. There were murmurs of agreement, much to Nelkir's dismay. _Didn't they understand the danger? _He had to wrest this back.

'The Forsworn are meticulous, and will find us, mark my words, if we stay here. It would be better to move on.'

The men looked torn now. The thief smiled, looking around at them before facing Nelkir. 'Who made you our leader?'

'What's your name?' White asked.

'Arras,' the Nord thief replied.

Nelkir nodded, as if seriously considering this fact. 'Why didn't I know that before?' Arras shrugged. 'I'll tell you. It was because I don't bother to learn the names of stuck up cowards who would rather wait for the Forsworn to "capture us" than run. I believe you said something about them "treating us nicely."' He turned to the men now, pacing up their line. 'You want to know how well they really treated us?' He thrust out his arm in the direction of the dead man, letting his frustration and guilt take over. 'One of our number is _dead_! But you didn't notice that, did you, caught up with yourselves as you were. That is how well they were planning to treat us!' He knew he had struck gold; the men looked guilty, and shamed, as if they had been caught out by their lord. In addition he had scared them just enough to follow reason, and not their comforts. Nelkir nodded with satisfaction, his face still stark and unfriendly, but there was little he could about that. 'Then follow me. Arras, feel free to join us in Sovngarde, if you make it up there.' And then he strode to the front of their group and started leading them from the rocks. Suddenly, Nelkir stopped, alarmed by the sound of feet; Forsworn feet.

A sharp burst of frustration shot through Nelkir, tingling his nerves. 'Shit.'

'Is it the Forsworn?' Marco whispered, appearing at White's shoulder.

The Bastard nodded. 'Follow me.' He turned and started sprinting along the narrow path, jumping over the low rocks that appeared in his path. He saw a flash of movement in his peripheral vision, but ignored it, pounding through the stone maze. His run was cut off abruptly, and the Nord was thrown to the ground. With an explosion of fear Nelkir registered the Forsworn warrior holding him down on the floor. His opponent drew his dagger, a dirty piece of iron, and punched it down into Nelkir's chest.

The Bastard twisted, and it slammed into his lower torso, breaking one of his ribs. He let out a grunt of pain and punched the Forsworn, forcing his opponent back a little, dazing him. With a sharp scrape of red hot pain, Nelkir ripped the dagger from his ribs. His vision was tinged with red, but almost instinctively, he flipped the dagger neatly in his hand and rammed it through his opponent's throat. Warm blood splashed into his mouth, but at the moment Nelkir was more concerned with the pain exploding through him with each breath.

He could hardly breathe, but then Marco was there, and he pulled him up. 'Can you walk?'

Nelkir refused to look weak in front of his followers and shook his head. He moved past Marco, nodding his thanks and looked around. There had only been two Forsworn and the others had made short work of the other one, much to Nelkir's satisfaction and pride. He stepped forward. 'Keep going. We need to make as good a time as possible, before anything else happens.' They started moving out at a jog, but Nelkir hardly noticed. His head was throbbing and his throat felt dry and tight. With a shaking hand he pressed it to his lower torso, on his right side. It came away bloody. Fear crept up on him, but White shoved it away viciously and took a deep breath, before ripping off a strip of his dead opponent's clothes and then followed after the others. It was going to be long day.

**They rested as night was **approaching**. **Nelkir had been determined to keep going, but the men were tired, and most importantly, his vision was beginning to blur. His wound sent fresh bolts of pain through his body everytime he moved and sweat covered his brow. He slumped to the ground, and pressed his hand to his torso. It had started bleeding again, and his trousers were soaked in his own blood now. The others had noticed, but so far said nothing. By the way his chest was burning up Nelkir reckoned it had probably become infected. He dared not sleep, less his pass into oblivion, leaving the others without a leader. He gritted his teeth as he touched the wound again, before forcing his expression back into a neutral position.

'Are you hurt?' Nelkir jerked up. It was Marco.

He shook his head, grimacing. 'It's just a flesh wound,' he said with forced lightness. It wasn't intended as a joke; he didn't want to worry the others.

'It looks bad. You need to rest.'

'I'll rest when we're safe, or I'm dead.'

'That doesn't seem to be too far off,' Marco commented, but he didn't say anything more after Nelkir shot him a sharp look of warning.

The Bastard sat back against his rock, breathing heavily. His stomach rumbled and he remembered how hungry he was. His mouth was parched and his throat was tightening up, restricting his breaths. The fever was obviously getting stronger.

**They continued on, passing through **dark rocks and craggy ledges, but no water, or deer, or any life.

Nelkir pressed his hand to his forehead as he led from the front; it was burning up. He needed to get medical help soon, or else he wouldn't live to see the next few days; that much was obvious. White took a moment to reflect on how shitty his life was, and how he had ended up like this, before closing his eyes, trying to shut out the pain. Nelkir almost stumbled and fell, but he pulled himself up and continued on.

'We need to move faster,' Nelkir told his companions. The simple sentence tore a fresh cry from his mouth, as fire lit up his chest with every breath. White slammed his jaw shut, but he obviously looked bad; the others were eying him like he was the living dead. The Bastard stumbled forward, steadying his footing before leading them forward, deeper into the labyrinth of stone.

**It was midday when he **fell. He didn't know which day. The pain was becoming too much. It pressed against his mind, and the fever was sapping his strength at a rapid pace. His throat was so tight he could hardly breath. Marco appeared at his shoulder for the third time that day. 'We need to get you medical attention.'

This time Nelkir didn't have strength to fend him off. 'Good idea. Bring him forward then.' Marco looked upset at the sarcastic response, but White hardly cared. The pain in his chest was restricting coherent thought, let alone his limited capacity for sympathy.

The Forsworn had been hunting them f0r the last few days. Dehydrated as they were, and with no food, the group was becoming weaker. But amazingly, they hadn't lifted a finger against Nelkir, their 'valiant' leader, and he had no idea why. He would have demanded answers for their predicament by now, but he couldn't question himself. Not well at least. As he sat, locked in despair, the Forsworn attacked.

They swarmed down the rocky cliffs. There must have been ten of them, far out numbering Nelkir's small group. He looked around, barely seeing or registering anything. The pain was searing, burning a deep hold in his chest now. Only a few of White's companions had weapons; two swords, daggers, and a bow the two Forsworn they had killed earlier were carrying wasn't much. But at least they would be able to put up a fight before they died.

Nelkir pulled out the iron dagger he had taken from the corpse of the Forsworn warrior he had killed, for which he felt only the slightest guilt, and prepared to fight. But it would be futile. By this point he could hardly stand, let alone fight. With food and water he could have fought off the fever and blood loss, maybe, but now it was impossible. It was just a matter of time before he was dead, and out of the options available to him, death in battle seemed the most honourable.

A Forsworn warrior leapt at him from a rock, but Nelkir stepped aside clumsily, dodging his swing, barely. The effort to do so leached out the last of his strength though and the next swing caught his chest. The skin split in another burst of whatever blood he had left. Burt there was something else; a sharp fire rushed through Nelkir, a strength that burnt through his body, giving him the might he needed to fight back. He sprang forward, knocking aside the Forsworn's sword and driving his dagger home, deep into his opponent's heart. They fell together, blood mixing as they tumbled over each other, slamming across the stony ground. They came to a halt and Nelkir spat out a coughing spurt of blood.

He heard more fighting, and saw men dressed in dark armour through clouded vision, wielding their weapons with a skill that easily surpassed the Forsworn. A boot entered his vision, and a blade tip slammed into the stone where it rested. He heard a voice above him.

'Tuz Valdes, what should we do with them?' _It's female_, Nelkir thought absently.

'Take them back to Sky Haven, quickly.'

And then blackness submerged Nelkir White completely.

**Okay, well if Nelkir wasn't dead before, he is now. I just joking. Please review for badass Nelkir. What did Jon say? Bastard's real men. I don't know; I sure you remember. Please review! **


	33. Dazzling Clouds

**The thanks; To Fenchie 884, thanks for the review! I'm pleased you liked Nelkir and that you think this story is so good! To thisguyy, thanks for the Story Favourite to Unending! To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Firstly, I really pleased that Nelkir is your favourite character! (Possibly) (I like hearing that kind of stuff; it really interests me). They aren't so trator-ish any more, so that's okay. Solo playing isn't for everyone. Anyway, I do want to recruit a gang of elite slayers to join me. We'll probably just be three (a vampire, human and werewolf hunting team. I've already got my friends roped in.) Bastard is supposed to be degrading; it's not nice, but like you said, it's Skyrim. It doesn't matter so much anymore, but back them… I feel for your cause about labelling people. Cynically though, it will never stop, else we wouldn't be humans. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Cool, I'm glad you liked Nelkir's return! Okay, yep, the Blades are loyal to Jon now. They number at about 1,500 in Sky Haven, with 10,000 more around Tamriel now. So, rapid growth, but then Nords and Dragonborn and a Thalmor hate club goes well together. Is Esbern alive? Read down. To DragonXander, I hope you had fun. Assur will return, never fear. Also, I'm really pleased that the last Nelkir chapter left you speechless! You will see more Marco. Thanks to everyone! Sorry if I missed anyone out. **

**Announcement; Esbern is ****alive****. I know, I know. He was supposed to die, but everyone (including in the latest reviews) are asking whether or not he is dead, so, he is alive. I don't normally bring characters back to the living (Ulfric and gang are in dreams, so don't give me that look) but seeing as no one even knew if he was dead (literally no one) it turns out he's alive! So, yeah, there you go. (I needed a good Master for the Blades anyway.) **

**End of Act I now, soon, whatever. Please review (great reviews last time! I think I know that I need more Nelkir.) **

**Prefect Casta Allectus **

**Prefect Casta Victorus Gaius Allectus **woke up to an empty bed. He frowned and looked around. His bedroom was just as cold as the bed, but Casta just shrugged. Obviously, his wife was already up. The Prefect hated to lie in for too long, otherwise he wouldn't get up, so he pulled out the stitches in one clean burst of pain so to say, and ripped back the covers. To his gratified surprise the day was warm, and sunlight shone through the clear glass windows of his house. He pulled a on a robe and admired the view of the Tiber Septim District from his window. It was clean and dazzling, with wide, planned streets and beautiful houses. Casta gazed over it with a deep sense of satisfaction for his accomplishments before stepping away and dressing quickly in clothes suitable to meet the Emperor. He had received the message yesterday, calling for his presence in a meeting with the leading members of the Empire. With a rush of pride, Casta realised that included him now. He smiled before making his way downstairs, into their kitchen.

Maria, his wife, had insisted they use servants but Casta wouldn't hear any of it. She had been sullen for a few days, but it had worn off eventually, and they were better off for it. She gave him a smile when he came in, and offered her cheek for a kiss, but otherwise said nothing as she continued to make the breakfast. Casta's daughter, Selvia Allectus, smiled happily at him when he entered. She was ten, not yet at the age where she was embarrassed by her parents. Casta often wondered what it would be like when she grew up; who she would marry, what would she do… It preyed on his mind almost as much as the Legions did.

'How was battle?' she asked, grinning in a naïve sort of way. She didn't even understand what she was asking.

Casta glanced at Maria, but she didn't give him any look, so he began slowly. 'Tiring. It's hard work fighting for the Empire.'

'Is it true that you captured the Lizard King?' Her eyes were big and brown. Casta wasn't sure how far he wanted to go into this.

'Yes, we did. He's very evil, and will be…' he refrained from using the word executed; 'told off…' Allectus finished lamely.

'What's battle like? How many people did you kill?'

'Okay, that's enough.' Maria swept in, depositing plates in front of them. 'You Father's work is his own, and you're too young to talk about it.'

Casta gave her a grateful look; Selvia was not old enough to hear all the gory details of war, and besides, she was female; it was hardly a typical domain for a women, even an Imperial women, who had more equality than those of the women in Skyrim, or Morrowind for instance.

Maria sat down. 'Why don't you tell your father about your classes?'

Selvia didn't look too enthusiastic. 'But they're boring.'

'Are they now?' Maria asked, raising her eyebrows. 'That's not what you told me.'

'It doesn't matter,' Casta said quickly. 'I have a meeting with the Emperor.'

Maria raised her defined eyebrows, but didn't say anything. Allectus kissed his daughter on the cheek and left them, stepping out into the open air without another word.

The sun caressed his cheek lightly, and as he walked he felt like a king stepping through his kingdom. The only bad thing was the storm cloud on the horizon, the Emperor's message, drawing in everything and stealing its colour. Casta shuddered as he recalled it. The writing told of dark tidings. With a sinking heart, the Prefect could guess at what the Emperor wanted to talk to him about.

White-Gold Tower loomed above all else, it's stone as new as Casta's promotion. The stone work was fine near the top, but rougher at the bottom where they had used the very stones that had fallen to Thalmor catapults. The Prefect's heart tugged painfully as he remembered the Empire's shame, and greatest defeat. The Tower stood as a testament to their failure; one that they wouldn't repeat, Casta vowed silently, his eyes burning.

The Penitus Oculatus standing by the door said nothing as he passed. It annoyed Casta, and he stopped.

'Why aren't you checking me?'

They looked unsure about the question, as if it was a trick. 'Prefect, we know you well.'

'Well enough that I wouldn't kill the Emperor?' he asked steely.

'Well, no-'

'I am unarmed, but that doesn't change anything,' he reprimanded them. He was about to walk in again, but now the guards crossed their spears.

'Prefect; we need to search you.' The guard who spoke looked scared, like he was about to be whipped for this action, but Casta smiled.

'Yes, of course.'

They searched him quickly, which Allectus couldn't blame them for. They had been shocked, but that was good. As Penitus, they should not only recover from the experience quickly, but learn from it. Casta nodded at them in approval and entered the tower. The corridor twisted round the Elder Council Chamber, located through the door in front of Casta, but the Prefect didn't enter. Instead he followed it round, coming to another door that led to the next floor. The whole Tower was set up in the same way, with a circular balcony that looked down on the Elder Council Chamber present in the centre of each level. The rooms were off to the edges, and were dedicated to different things, save the Scroll room, and the Emperor's personal quarters, in which the floors specialised in nothing else. In reality, the Imperial family lived elsewhere in the city, but the apartments at the top of the tower were ceremonial, and the site of the meeting today.

Casta reached the top fairly easily, though he had to pass through several guards. It was the reason he had brought no weapons; there would have been no point of it, but too many questions. At each stop the Penitus members acted as they should; polite, admirable, but strict. Even the Prefect of the Legions was not allowed to enter the Emperor's quarters armed.

The room that Casta entered was a solar. There was no fire in the elaborate grate, but the windows were open, filling the round room with clear light. A large throne-like chair was set up in a corner for the Emperor, dotted by seats around it. Casta felt mildly uncomfortable about the informal setting but he didn't say anything. It was the Emperor's choice after all.

The High Chancellor was there already, standing, twisting his gold rings. He regarded Casta with a faint look of distaste, but held out his hand anyway and the Prefect shook it.

'Any idea why we're here?' Raxle asked, breaking the hold, and returning to nervously twisting his rings.

'Isn't it obvious?' Casta asked, raising his eyebrows. The Chancellor's look said otherwise. The Prefect thought carefully about his next words, not wishing to seen too patronising. 'I'm sure the Emperor will want to tell you himself.'

'Yes, of course. It must be very important.'

'I doubt the Emperor would have called us t0gether otherwise,' Casta agreed gently, as if humouring a small child. The Chancellor half looked like one.

At that moment, a man and women entered. The, surprisingly graceful, woman was Cassia Derionne, Prefect of Laws. The balding, powerfully built, man was Count Marius Cairo, one of the most powerful rulers within Cyrodiil. Casta shook their hands warmly; both personalities were the superior to their High Chancellor.

'Does anyone have any idea as to our purpose here?' Cassia asked, giving them all a fierce stare, repeating the Chancellor's obvious question. Her blond hair was tied back severely.

'And why is this not being done with the Elder Council?' Cairo asked, shrewdly. It was a question that Casta hadn't asked himself, but now that he thought about it, it didn't make much sense. He felt slightly stupid to not have considered this. Even the High Chancellor didn't look surprised by his line of thought.

'I suspect that the Emperor wanted a quick decision, not one can be argued about,' Cassia suggested astutely.

'Indeed,' the High Chancellor agreed, rubbing his greying temples. 'We all know how troublesome they can be.' No one pointed out that he was, despite his line of thinking, one of 'them.' It was then that the Emperor decided to make his entrance, quite conviently. He seemed to have a knack for that.

The Penitus Oculatus guards entered first. 'Enter, Talos Emperor!'

The leaders of the Empire knelt as he entered, dressed in a deep blue lined with gold, suited for politics, not war, which is where Casta expected this to go. 'Rise, please.' They stood and the Emperor took his seat in the large chair. They sat, to their credit without bickering, in the chairs arrayed around him. The High Chancellor was about to sit on his right, but the Emperor made a gesture. 'Prefect Allectus.' Casta was a little surprised, and tried to cover his pride as he stepped past the Chancellor's black look. The others didn't look too happy by this change. _The Emperor made the wrong move in showing favouritism, despite it's recognition for my skills, _Casta mused grimly. They glared at him with resentful looks. Allectus tried to ignore them as best he could.

'I have called you here for one reason,' the Emperor began. The others managed to spare a second to shift their black stares from Casta to their leader. Looking closer, the Prefect noticed that he looked pale, and drawn. Hs eyes were dull. 'Yesterday, I received word from the southern provinces that the Thalmor have crossed into the Empire. ' Ripples ran through the room, followed by audible gasps. 'It was only a scouting party, but they are going to follow through with an army.'

'How can you be sure, Talos?' Cairo asked. Casta held his breath, shocked; no one questioned the Emperor's word.

Their leader frowned, but didn't look overly concerned. _That was a mistake_, Allectus reflected grimly. _He should be reprimanding the Count, at least. _'The scouts that died to give us this information are reliable. Their memory should not be sullied.' It lacked the snap that Casta had hoped for though, and Cairo didn't look overly chastised. He continued. 'I have already sent word for the Legions to assemble. Fortunately,' he turned to Casta; 'our Prefect had them ready for such a moment. I want you to meet them, and fight for the Empire, Prefect. As befits your rank, and accomplishments, you will take command. I expect you to leave as soon as possible.'

'Of course, Talos,' Casta agreed, inclining his head. 'It is an honour.'

The Emperor nodded briskly. 'It will be my job, and the Chancellor's, to pacify the Elder Council. You, Count Cairo, I want to raise the levies from your lands, and deliver the messages that will secure the men from the other provinces.' Casta nodded absently, even as his mind raced with the audacity of his coming campaign. _I'm going to fight the Thalmor! _His bones chilled at the thought, but using the Count's position to raise the levies was a traditional role, and it would go a little way to pacify him the, unintentional, slights he had received today. 'You, Prefect Derionne, will draw up the laws and peace treaties we may need to combat the Thalmor.'

'You mean to draw up _peace treaties_ already?' she asked, frowning.

'No, of course not,' the Emperor stumbled, realising the mistake in wording. 'It's just a precaution.' That was hardly the answer they wanted to hear, but it was the best they would get, so they said nothing. 'I will announce the outbreak of war to the people tomorrow, after Prefect Allectus has left,' he finished, carefully this time.

_An honest ruler. _Casta wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or a bad thing. As always, he said nothing.

'That is all,' the Emperor finished. He stood and pressed his fist to his heart. 'For the Empire.'

'For the Empire,' they repeated, uneasily. They left without saying a word to each other, obviously caught up in the news. Casta had heard it before, from Titus Emperor, and so he had expected it eventually. That said, he found that the kick it gave his heart was no better; his hands were shaking as he jogged home. His brow pricked out in sweat, and he saw Thalmor shadows round every corner. It was a relief when he saw the door of his house come into view.

Casta Allectus rushed up to it, breathing heavily, and entered his house, almost expecting to find his family massacred by the Thalmor. To his immense relief they weren't, but Selvia was gone, obviously with her tutor somewhere. Maria was doing some housework, but she actually looked like she was about to go out. That didn't bode well.

'Casta?' she asked, her brow creasing when she saw him. 'What happened? Why are you breathing so heavily?'

Allectus quickly decided whether he should tell her. For reasons he couldn't quite understand he decided not to. Instead he said; 'the Emperor has sent me south on an important mission.'

'Oh? Okay,' Maria said, looking a little confused. 'How long will you be gone?'

He shook his head, closing the door as his heart slowed a little. 'I don't know. But I need to start packing.'

'Well… we can talk about it later,' she told him, pulling out a cloak. Casta sighed inwardly; he had been right. 'I need to go out.' She swept past him, and Casta watched her go, frowning, confused emotions rising up. For once, the Thalmor were at the back of his mind.

**End of Act I**


	34. Act II: The Son

**Act II; the beginning of the real shit! Yeah, that's all I have to say. It will be a Selina chapter next, followed by Nelkir. **

**The thanks. To King of the Raurackl, thanks for the Story Favourites! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! The new Emperor is a little soft, definitely. Cairo shouldn't be allowed to question him, but there you go. Yep, the story is going to leapt forward now once I've used a few POV's to establish where we are after four months. Sorry, I don't know what Naruto is (I have heard it in passing). To DragonXander, thanks for the review! True, that is why you get a reliable Steward. I know what you mean out of losing moments you wanted to discuss because of another one right at the end. Thanks to everyone, as always. **

**My brother's story, 'The Perseus Attraction' on the Percy Jackson FanFiction has been nominated for a Phoenix Award in the Humour Category!Voting starts tomorrow, so I'm basically using the unfair advantage of trying to whip up more votes. If you could, that would be great because it is seriosuly funny. (Don't believe me, check out the first chapter, or Chapter 5- We Complete Kate Moss' Best Friend Quiz. Very, very funny. Don't believe that? Okay, okay, just check out the reviews then. Why don't you believe me?)**

**Please review, or else I'll throw you into the battle myself! **

**Act II**

_**Four Months Later**_

**Carl Alsfur Stormcloak**

**The day was grim. **Storm clouds threatened to break overhead, reflecting the sombre mood of the men with uncanny perfection. _It's almost like the Gods share in our suffering, _Carl Alsfur Stormcloak thought, glancing up at the grey blanket that smothered their laughter. He sighed, bringing his attention back to earth, as he strode between tents, his boots sending up splashes of mud with each step. Kodaav swung at his side as he navigated the ropes pulling the tents back to earth, saving them from the wind that savaged Alsfur's dark hair.

Stormcloak climbed up a hill that overlooked the massive campsite, where his father's tent was located. His was set up next to it, both black, with the bear of Eastmarch picked out in silver thread. They looked strong and regal as they surveyed their followers, a mass of black tents, some worn, others new, where the men slept and cooked under the darkness of early evening. Their fires could be picked out like rubies, precious things in the darkness of the impending storm. Ahead of him, Alsfur could just about spy the beginning of the King's own bannermen, a sea of gold, with his tent dominating the centre of the camp.

'The King's Men', as they were being called now, as opposed to Silver-Blood's 'Jarl's Men', had been camping out the winter. Wooden gates separated each lord from the other, arrayed as they were around the King in a circular fashion. Alsfur could see Father's Thanes' tents, larger than their Thegn's, whose were larger than the Carls, and so on. The entire power structure of Skyrim was laid out before him, and Alsfur took a certain amount of pride in the height of his own status.

He descended the hill, careful with his footing, and leapt into the maze of black. Alsfur strode through the tents, checking his direction every now and then, and called out greetings to the men he passed. Eventually he arrived at his destination; the tent of Thane Tor Blackmoore. He didn't enter. Instead, Alsfur waited outside on a rock, watching the men cooking their dinner, flipping his dagger lightly in his hand. He turned at the sound of footsteps. It was Carl Erik Blackmoore.

'Hello, my friend,' Alsfur said, clasping his arm.

'To you as well,' Erik smiled. They broke apart and started walking. Seeing Blackmoore reminded Stormcloak of Tavia, back at Windhelm. It had been a gut decision to beg Thane Tor for her as a ward. Something about her just… caught Alsfur's attention. He couldn't explain it, and put the thought from his mind as Erika asked a question. 'Where to today, Thegn?'

Alsfur frowned. 'I'd expect you to call me by my name.'

'I do, the only name I know,' Erik replied.

Stormcloak shrugged. 'When I become Jarl, it'll be difficult for you to stop using that title, won't it?'

'I think I'll manage,' Erik said, looking around. 'We should probably talk to some of the men.'

'And why's that?' Alsfur grinned. 'The food or the company?' They started laughing; the food in a military camp was notoriously bad, for the men-at-arms. The company was equally bad; the men were too deferential to treat them like equals, something Alsfur reflected on with a feeling of strange isolation.

'Actually, I need to get to know the men I may command one day,' Erik explained. 'Father sees it as a requirement.'

'And is he sitting with them as well, eating…' Alsfur kicked a loose stone, 'bird shit, and something a butcher once referred to as a sausage?'

'Is your father?' Erik asked shrewdly.

Alsfur frowned. 'As it happens, yes. He sat with your father yesterday.' _And was there ever a more awkward dinner? _'It doesn't matter anyway. My Father told me to do the same thing. It's why I picked you up; I couldn't handle it alone.'

'Likewise,' Erik agreed, before pointing out a tent. 'We could eat with the blacksmiths.'

Alsfur shook his head. 'Not common enough, I fear. How about those men?'

Erik followed his finger to see a group of men huddled round a cooking pot, labelling a creamy stew into bread heels called 'trenchers'. They were laughing and joking; in other words, they seemed good company. 'Those men?' Blackmoore asked.

'They look like good company, and I think the food is okay as well,' Alsfur said, admiring the stew. Erik shrugged and nodded, so they made their way over to the men who watched them with wary, mistrustful eyes. Alsfur couldn't blame them, and he tried as friendly a smile as he could.

'Can we share your pot?'

The men were obviously unfamiliar with them; after all, the vassal rarely saw their liege lord. Alsfur guessed that there was not ten common men who could identify him by sight, let alone Erik. Even so, their fine clothes and boots, including their weapons, gave them away as noble. In addition, Erik's accent was well clipped, whereas Alsfur's was rougher, but still somewhat posh. The men rose to their feet. 'Of course, m'lords.'

'My thanks.' Alsfur sat, while Erik took the place next to him, adjusting his sword so that it fitted comfortably. The men around the fire, three of them, addressed Erik first.

'We were making rabbit stew, lord.'

Blackmoore nodded, incapable of smiling in the presence of strangers like Father and Thane Tor. 'It looks good,' he said, but to Alsfur it sounded cold, even though he knew the other Carl meant it. It was obviously a Blackmoore trait. Erik glanced at Alsfur, his liege lord, before continuing. 'Carl Erik Blackmoore.' He looked down, somewhat uncomfortable, before continuing. 'My companion, Carl Alsfur Stormcloak, my Thegn.'

The men's eyes widened at the familiar surname and they exchanged nervous looks. 'Begging your pardon, Thegn. We assumed your companion was the leader.'

_It must have been the accent_. At the hilt, Kodaav was a fine sword, but the skyforge didn't show, and he wore no sigil, so there was no other way to identify him. Alsfur waved off their apologies. 'Don't worry about it. Shall we eat this stew?'

They nodded and continued to serve, passing trenchers to the two Carls. The leader of the group spoke. 'My name's Therik. This is Reb and Calder,' he said, indicating two squat men on either of himself. 'Sorry if the stew not what you're used to, Thegn, and Carl.'

Alsfur waited to see if Erik would answer, and when he didn't he jumped in quickly to relieve the men of their anxiety. _It's written across their faces. _'We came here to eat your food, as it is. I would be slighted if it were anything more.'

The men were unsure whether this was a good thing, and smiled nervously, before beginning to talk again. 'When do you think Silver-Blood will attack?' Therik asked Reb. It was obviously conversation that was safe around the two nobles.

'Dunno, though I reckon it will be soon. This winter's laying off, that's for sure.'

'Have you seen that Housecarl Silver-Blood's got?' Calder interjected. 'He's a fucking monster. I heard he ripped off a man's arm once.'

'You're hearing things. He's just a man.'

'Oh yeah?' Calder exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. 'You ever seen him in battle?'

'No,' the other admitted.

'Pray you never do.' The conversation was quickly moved on, still nervously placed around the two nobles.

'I wouldn't be surprised if Silver-Blood attacks us at night,' Reb began, picking at his stew.

'What would be the point?' Alsfur asked, suddenly. 'We're surrounded by walls.'

'Wooden walls, Thegn. Useless in a real fight,' the man-at-arms replied nonchalantly. The men went pale as he realised how he had just spoken to his lord.

Alsfur watched him, amused. 'I agree. Maybe I'll ask my father to raise stone walls.'

'Your father? The Dragonborn?' he asked, almost reverently. Obviously, loyalties to your heroes was stronger in the commons than that felt among the nobles, but still the question annoyed Alsfur. It was always about his father, 'the Dragonborn'. _Well, what did you expect? _

'The very same,' Alsfur agreed, not quite managing to get the bitterness out of his voice.

'Begging your pardon, but you see him regularly? You're close to him?' Reb asked.

_What kind of question is that?_ 'Of course we're close,' he snapped. But was that true? Ever since the war had begun, they had drifted apart. Father had always been distant, in a way, but now, it was like they were from two different families. Alsfur could only guess it was something he had done. He knew he wasn't mother, and he couldn't support Father in the same way she did. Alsfur could only watch in silence, miserable and now, that sense of hopelessness rushed over him as quickly as the rain clouds.

'Do you think you might get me an audience?' The man looked nervous, and very uncomfortable. 'I have this problem-'

Alsfur's desolation exploded from him a burst of black anger. 'No, I can't!' he snarled. 'Just forget about it.' He knocked over their pot and stormed away, ignoring Erik's cries. He made it about twenty metres before an arm grabbed him. He turned, his face contorted with rage, coming face to face with Ralof.

'What the hell was that?'

His anger evaporated at the sight of the Housecarl. 'They annoyed me,' Alsfur said petulantly.

Ralof's face was iron. 'Maybe, but you'd never do anything like that normally? So, which was it? You've got a problem, or you're just a dickhead?' Alsfur stared sullenly at his feet, not wanting to reveal anything. 'All right, have it your way,' Ralof said. 'Just remember one thing; you'll only be given as much respect as you've earnt.' He was about to turn away, before he decided to add something. 'Apologise, and then go meet your father in his tent. He wants to see you.' And like that he was gone.

Alsfur stared after Ralof with a resentful glare. In truth he knew the Housecarl was right. He had been angry, but the man couldn't have know, nor was it his fault. Alsfur trudged back to the tent, feeling embarrassed and guilty. He mumbled out an apology, wondering how much respect he had already lost through his outburst, and ignored Erik's look as he made for his father's tent. It started raining properly on the way there, reflecting his mood better than he could have hoped. His shirt stuck to his skin and Kodaav shone as the water washed its hilt.

Alsfur Stormcloak entered the tent in a foul mood, culpable and angry, to find the last people he had wanted to see waiting in the tent. Father's Thanes surrounded him, leaning on chairs, or examining the map that covered the large square table dominating the main section of the tent. Father's face was in its normal impassive iciness, and he wore a tough black leather jerkin, unarmed, save for his skyforge steel dagger. His Thanes were dressed in similar forms of dress. Ulster Stormcloak stood behind them all, his arms crossed and his eyes dark. He wore no sword.

When Father had returned to Windhelm, he had been confronted with what to do with his uncle. By rights, Ulster was no criminal; he had never made any assault on the family, and his claim was legitimate. It would be against the laws of the land to imprison Ulster, and the elder Stormcloak knew it. He had asked permission to accompany them on campaign, which Father had reluctantly agreed to. It was either leave him, with Mother and Ulfgar, or under the suspicious gaze of Father and himself; a much safer option. Truthfully, Alsfur had nothing against the other Nord, but his very presence threatened his own claim to Windhelm, and more importantly, the safety of his mother and brother. As a result, Alsfur had vowed to watch him carefully, and act decisively should he see anything he didn't like.

Ralof watched him from the corner, and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Alsfur nodded, and took his place next to his father somewhat meekly. Father looked between them briefly, but his expression remained as smooth as clear glass. His eyes pierced straight into Alsfur, but moved back to his Thanes soon enough.

'Is everyone here?' Father asked Ralof, roaming across his Thanes with a look.

'As you commanded,' his Housecarl said.

'Good.' Father spread his hands over the table, and tapped one area, a hill next to a forest, about twenty miles north of Falkreath, two miles from their camp. His Majesty has received word that Silver-Blood is massing his forces here, at the top of this hill. The King wants to end this war now by assaulting Silver-Blood's position, and forcing him from it.' Father drew his finger across the map at a section to the north of the hill. 'The forest borders him here. The King is sending Jarl Falkreath down there, as he knows the lie of the land well, trapping Silver-Blood's escape, while hopefully catching him unaware. His Majesty wants us on the west,' Father told them, indicating the stop on the map; 'to form a part of the spearheaded attack he has planned. Jarl Winter will join his forces to ours, with myself in command.' Alsfur looked at the other Thanes. They were pleased; it would have been an insult to give the powerful Clan Stormcloak servitude to Clan Winter, and even though they would command no authority over the Winterhold bannermen, it still left the Eastmarch Thanes with a sense of superiority. _Anything to nurture their pride_, Alsfur observed somewhat bitterly, frustrated by the nature of men and still guilty about his own outburst to that man-at-arms earlier.

'The King will take the centre and Kingsblood the east, with Carl Areas in command there. Dawnstar and Morthal will support them respectively.' He looked up with a hint of a smile. 'It seems that he is trying to pair us up with those he thinks we will get along with best, so be nice to the Winterholdians.' They chuckled and Father raised himself up to his full height. 'I don't want to have to suspend your battle duties for ill conduct,' he finished. 'You're dismissed. Tell your Theyns about this.' The Thanes began to disperse, and Alsfur moved up to the table to examine it better. The hill looked quite steep, and they were meant to fight up it!

'Father?' Alsfur asked, tracing the contour lines with his fingers.

'Alsfur.' The Jarl came up next to him, his eyes questioning. 'What is it?'

'The boy's noticed the obvious mistake.' Alsfur turned, surprised, to see Ulster standing behind them. 'We'll be massacred trying to take that hill, if this Silver-Blood's got any kind of sense.'

Father didn't even reply. He seemed lost in unpleasant thoughts, probably about his own defeat at court to Silver-Blood.

'You'd know, wouldn't you?' Ralof said, challengingly from the corner.

Ulster raised his eyebrows at Father. 'You let your servants talk back to you, Jon?'

'He's letting you talk, isn't he?' Wood shot back.

The elder Stormcloak's expression turned black, and he stepped forward, his fists clenched before Father's voice brought him back.

'Enough! I won't have you fighting,' he growled. 'And Uncle;' the endearment came off his tongue like steel from stone. 'It's "Your Jarl" or "My Jarl". You may be Stormcloak, but I don't consider you family.'

'And I don't consider you the Jarl,' Ulster hissed; 'yet here I am, giving you the due deference. I won't name you though.'

They stood, staring at each other. Father's eyes were on fire, consuming everything in front of it. Ulster didn't flinch though, to his credit. Instead he held his nephew's glare.

'Can we return to the map?' Alsfur asked, breaking them from the spell. He knew that neither of them would have backed down if they had been given the chance. But war was the primary concern here, and the true domain of the Stormcloaks. 'We still need to figure out a way to assault this hill successfully.'

'Simple.' Ulster broke off from the staring match with Father, giving Alsfur a dismissive glance that fanned the flames of his own Stormcloak anger. 'We use catapults to break up their archers.'

'Oh, that's right,' Ralof exclaimed sarcastically. 'What a fucking fabulous idea. Why didn't I think of that?' He scowled, his jaw tight despite his supposed mirth. 'Oh wait, we don't have any!'

Ulster's eyes travelled over him once with a look of contempt, before roaming over to Father. 'Your Housecarl needs to learn some manners… my Jarl.' He returned his gaze to Ralof. 'They'll get him in trouble someday.'

'I won't have you threaten my Housecarl, Ulster,' Father told him steely.

'Never fear, I'd never waste a threat on one so low,' he declared.

'This isn't helping our strategy,' Alsfur told them angrily. 'We need to get back to this, now.' The grown men around him eyed each other with looks of immense dislike, but they turned away, and back to the table. 'Why don't we use archers?' Alsfur suggested.

Ralof considered this. 'It could work, but they would be subjected to missile fire as they aimed up that hill. And how would the arrows reach?' ouH

Ulster rolled his eyes. 'Do I have to spell it out for you? Arm them with longbows. Fire will break the ranks, while you place men with large wooden boards in front of the archers to defend them.'

'What about a charge?' Father asked, regarding him in a new light.

'Section horse on either side of the hill to trap them in a pincher movement. In addition, send more bowmen behind the original archers, ready to loose arrows at a charge. That will break it up. Spearmen can be placed as an assurance.'

Father studied the map, as if trying to determine a fault in the plan. 'What about Silver-Blood catapults, if he has any?'

'Spread out the men,' he shrugged.

'And if Silver-Blood sends the entire, crushing weight of his cavalry against us? It will only take one charge,' Father pointed out evenly.

'We'll have to draw them off,' Alsfur said quickly, interposing his ideas before Ulster's. 'Use men to climb the hill with their shields. They can withstand arrows, and hopefully distract Silver-Blood's main force sent to deal with the west. If we have the King do the same-'

'No, it will be better if everyone uses their own strategy,' Ulster interrupted.

'Unity is better,' Alsfur argued.

'Not for a man like Silver-Blood. From what I've heard, it will just give him a chance to neutralise our _whole _attack in one blow.'

Alsfur sank back, nodding. It made sense, much to his displeasure.

'We'll just have to make the feint convincing, to allow the main group of archers to cover the strike force climbing the hills sufficiently,' Ralof said. 'If we put all our decent men in one section, so they appear the bigger threat…'

'_Some_ of our best men,' Father put in. 'We don't want to be caught out if the main party does reach the top of the hill.'

'Equip them in plate on vulnerable areas as well,' Ulster told them. 'It will protect them from the arrows a little.'

'What about if they use fire on us?' Alsfur asked, his brow furrowing.

'Get rid of any surcoats,' Ralof suggested.

'We'd be going in blind to our allies,' Father mused.

'Then use the shields to paint heraldry, and allegiance.'

'That might work,' Jarl Stormcloak agreed. He looked over the map once, before nodding. 'That's decided then. I'll tell my Thanes and Jarl Winter tomorrow. He might be able to improve it, see things we can't.' They regarded each other with a strange sense of self respect. For a second, Alsfur almost felt like a family. Ulster broke it.

'Do I get a sword then?'

Father turned to regard him slowly, with an icy look in his fiery blue eyes. 'I'd hate for you to die a coward, uncle.'

'**I'd hate for you to read a non-reviewer, reader,' Jon said, regarding the reader icily. The reader swallowed and put down a quick, 'lol'. **

**So… review? **

**And please look into the Phoenix Award. It is very funny, so check it out if you have a vague interest in Percy Jackson, OR you want to bust a gut laughing. (Hey, don't give me that look. You may have a death wish.) **


	35. Two Assassins

**A Selina chapter. (Isn't that obvious?) **

**The thanks; To Frenchie884, thanks for the review! Yep, Alsfur is evolving as a character. I'm sure he'll stop one day, maybe. I'm not going to put the Dragonborn dlc in this story, HOWEVER, I have a story called Dragonblood which follows those events, so feel free to go over and check it out! To Foacir, thanks for the review! Well, I won't say anything. I think it'll surprise you though. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! There was definitely tension, and a brief family moment which Ulster ruined. Silver-Blood doesn't fall, or at least not far… (Honestly though, I can't actually tell you; you'll just have to wait.) The dragons will not help Jon. They're ungrateful in that way. The Blades will appear next chapter. Jon's bannermen control about 3,000 men apiece, ish. Overall Jon controls about 20,000 men, probably more. And yes, there will be a fair amount of action soon, due to the fact we'll get right into the war. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked the battle strategy. I did remember William I, but I chose not to give them that plan. Silver-Blood is far too intelligent for that. Alsfur has feelings for Tavia, but I'll leave it at that. And of course there are flaws in the strategy. The surcoats are the French ones, and of course a longbow would have a little trouble shooting up a hill, but if everything was perfect, why document the battle? Why shouldn't you remove a surcoat, save identification, and protect from summer heat on mail, etc? (It's Skyrim so heat is not a problem.) Thanks to everyone! I hope I included you in the thanks if you did something… worth, you know… thanking. **

**Sorry for the length. The next one should hopefully be longer. **

**Selina Black **

**The carriage stopped in a **rustle of dust that swept up into Selina Black's face. She covered her mouth with her sleeve and jumped to the ground, landing deftly. The streets of Whiterun were barren, bordered by cheap wooden houses, well carved, Selina would admit, but little else. She passed a few coins up to her driver and kicked the ground, sending more dust swirling into the bitterly sharp wind. Selina let out her breath through her nose in frustration for the freezing temperatures that made up Skyrim's climate. Apparently, the winter had just ended, and spring was coming. It didn't feel like it. Now, back home felt like a desert from Hammerfell compared to Skyrim.

The Assassin pulled her light cloak around her body and pulled up the hood, covering her mouth in a scarf to try and retain some of her precious heat. Selina looked around, noting the strong Nord men; when she was cold, sex began to take over her mind. He pushed it from her mind with a look of distaste for the now unwelcome feeling.

Selina begun to walk up the streets, gazing at Dragonsreach as she did so; it was truly massive, which just fuelled her building resentment, and towered over everything. _Another monument to the arrogance of the rich. _Selina shook her head, her dark eyes scouring the landscape for any sign of the inn she was looking for; The Battered Mare. Selina was reluctant to ask for anything; she prided her independence too highly.

Whiterun wasn't what she had expected. It was supposed to be the capital of the great Nord nation, and if Skyrim was reflected in this city, then she very much doubted the validity of the Listener's doubts over the Nordic power. Not that she would ever question him openly; even hundreds, maybe thousands of miles from him, no one ever questioned the Listener.

Selina continued up the street, her eyes flickering over the houses, until she entered the main square. Here, she felt uncomfortable for the first time since arriving in Skyrim. The Nords towered over her Imperial frame, and were rough. They pushed past her, often slamming into each other deliberately. _They're barbaric_, she thought with a practiced look of disdain, as she flitted through the crowd, avoiding the bigger Nords.

To her relief, The Battered Mare suddenly appeared in front of her, large and sprawling, just like a drunken Nord. The imagery made her smile. Selina pushed open the door, which was a little too large, and into the musky heat of the tavern.

It covered her like a warm blanket, dulling her senses, and she pulled off her hood and scarf. There was a hook nearby, but Selina hardly trusted for her things to stay there during her time here. Instead she moved past it, and up to the bar.

'Can I get you anything?' the bartender, a woman, asked. She still towered over Selina, to the Imperial's acute annoyance.

'Only the hand,' she replied coolly. It was the signal she had been instructed to use. Before the barkeeper could even reply, a hand touched her shoulder lightly, and drew her away, all the while apologising to the bartender for… her stupidity!

Selina whipped round, coming face to face with a lanky Imperial. He had an unkempt explosion of dark hair and an open look. He was dressed neatly in black, new and soft.

'Follow me,' he commanded in a smooth voice, cutting off her protests. This was obviously her contact; he didn't look like much, but he was supposed to be very skilled. She would just have to take the Brotherhood's word for it.

They made their way into a small room at the back, where a table had been set up. He closed the door carefully and then sat opposite her.

'What was that?' Selina hissed. 'I'm stupid?'

'Are you?' he asked, nonchalantly. 'I thought they'd send someone smarter for a task of this magnitude.'

'Oh, be quiet you idiot,' Selina huffed.

'No need to be rude,' he said, watching her carefully, his eyes alive with light. 'You could thank me you know.'

Selina eyed him angrily. 'Why?'

'I saved you from a situation that would have made you look like an idiot.' Selina shot him an icy look and he smiled. 'Name's Aventus Aretino.' He held out his hand.

Black took it. He had a powerful shake for one so unassuming. 'Selina Black.'

He nodded. 'It's a nice name. Shall we get to business?'

'Please.'

To her surprise he stood up. 'Let's go then.'

'What are doing?' Selina demanded.

'Leaving,' Aventus explained slowly. 'And you?'

'Staying.'

'I thought you wanted to talk business?'

Selina put on an expression of affront, pushing her head forward in a disbelieving gesture. 'Well, yes. But, you know, inside the warm?'

'Oh no,' Aventus exclaimed. 'We don't do that.'

Selina raised her hands. 'Why not?'

'Boring.' He saw her expression. 'Oh come on, it's not like we hang around in musty churches anymore,' he made a zombie impression; 'like vampires and werewolves, waiting for you to come forward like a young apprentice.' He chuckled and started walking, leaving Selina with no option but to follow him. Which she did, much to her annoyance.

They exited the inn, back into the freezing cold of the day. Aventus didn't seem to feel it, but Selina covered herself in her cloak. Aretino stepped forward with an easy step. 'It's a beautiful day, is it not?'

_Was that a joke? _

'I love the sharp cold, the way the dust swirls around your feet. Makes me feel like a Redguardion Prince!' He let out another chuckle and Selina cursed her bad luck that she had been cursed with an imbecile for a partner. 'Really, it _is_ a fabulous day. But,' he clapped his hands together; 'to business! You see that palace?' Aretino asked, pointing at Dragonsreach.

Selina stopped walking, looking at him with her head tilted. 'It kind of fucking hard not to,' she snapped.

Aventus ignored her. 'Beautiful place.'

'It's just a monument to the rich. Don't get too caught up.' She begun walking, but he caught her arm.

'It's far more than that! The blood of the Nede live up there.' He frowned. 'Well, not really. The Wind-Shifter's are not Nedic, but the Ravencrones are, and the Stormcloaks! How cool is that?'

'I'm wetting myself with excitement,' Selina replied sarcastically, before turning to regard Dragonsreach resentfully. 'Why do they need palaces? Why do they think they are any better than us?'

'Simple. They rule us, and guide us, and we make sure everyone knows it.'

'What an argument. I've been converted,' she said, making an open gesture with her arms. 'Oh mighty King, please forgive me my doubt.'

Aventus pursed his lips. 'You're mocking me.'

Selina regarded him in mock-horror. 'And I thought I was the idiot?'

'You know, I think I understand why they chose you now,' Aventus murmured thoughtfully. 'Anyway, are you ready to talk business this time?' he asked, raising an eyebrow.

'Go ahead.'

Aretino started walking again, treading up the dusty path. 'What has the Listener told you of out mission?'

'The basics, as well as a motive.' _To help the Dominion, _she mused sourly. 

Aventus frowned. 'I wasn't told the purpose of all this, only what we need to do.' Selina made no move to say anything; if a Brother or Sister wasn't told the goal of a set of assassinations, it is likely they couldn't handle the truth. _I feel blessed, _Selina reflected bitterly. She hated the Dominion, but she had sworn an oath to the Brotherhood. Only the scum of the earth broke an oath, and those people rarely lived long. 'It doesn't matter,' Aventus continued, shrugging off his doubts. 'What does matter is the nature of our mission. As you know, I'll act as your,' he pursed his lips, thinking about the right word; '"informal second". In other words, we'll plan it together and I'll get my team aid us in the assassination. In addition, we have a contact within the Nordic ranks who will provide aid wherever they can.'

'Who is this contact?' Selina asked curiously.

'An old friend.' The unusually blunt tone in his voice brokered no argument.

The Assassin pushed it from her mind, wrapped her hands around her body and stared up at Dragonsreach. 'So, when are we going to get to work?'

'Soon,' Aventus assured her. 'First, I think we'll wait a little bit.' A dark look flashed over his face. 'War is a dangerous place, after all.'

**Please review. Sorry if that was a little short, but it was needed to get Selina on track. Hope Aventus was living up to any expectations you might have had. Thanks for reading! **


	36. Forgettable Storms

**Hello guys! A Nelkir chapter. Hopefully you'll like it. Next up is a Jon chapter, which is proving to be very fun to write, as always. **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Ah, shit. The inn thing is my fault. I'm glad you like Aventus, and Selina really is cynical. I just hope that the romance in Nelkir's chapter is major enough to become fairly central, because it's quite an important aspect of his POV's for a little bit (though don't worry; there won't be any teenage angst.) That said, there will be no Aventus and Selina romance, so that's okay. Oh, and the surcaot thing makes sense, but we'll see. To Foacir, I'm glad you liked Aventus' introduction. Well, I needed a sidekick, as always. He fit the bill. To Guest, thanks for the review! Glad you liked it. To Devil's-Butterfly-Maid, thanks for the Story Follower and Favourite. To Omega Gilgamesh, thanks for the Story Favourite. To That Guy, thanks for the review. I'm pleased that you think it's 'really cool.' To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I can't say who is the contact, but you'll find out eventually. Clavicus will return soon. The Dominion has moved its forces into Cyrodiil. You'll find out in the next Casta chapter, which will be a battle. Thanks to everyone for the support. Please review! **

**First up; let's try and get to 400 reviews! It's my birthday soon, so that would be great. In other news, for those of you who have been waiting for action, you'll see a lot very soon. I realise things have been pretty chatty, so I'll put in some blood and gore every soon, starting with the major Stormcloak-Silver-Blood battle (which is like a Battle of the Blackwater importance moment. If this was a TV Series they'd need to get the budget up to shoot it.) Anyway, I hope you like this. And yes, Esbern is alive. **

**Nelkir, of Solitude**

**The sword came down heavily**, knocking his arm to the ground with a numbing crunch, before twisted round to swing at his head. Nelkir White ducked under it, feeling the blunt steel lift his hair lightly with a thin whistling trail of sound, before twisting to meet his own steel with that of his opponent's.

'Guard up, Solitude!' shouted Carl Damon Herrifield, their Master-At-Arms.

Nelkir gritted his teeth in acknowledgment and raised his sword, each of his opponent's strikes jarring as they exchanged a flurry of blows, all weaker than the last. _He's slowing. _With a burst of speed the Bastard moved forward, locking his opponent's sword in his own before sweeping out his leg, sending his enemy crashing to the ground. Nelkir slammed his foot onto his opponent's throat and levelled his sword at his chest. Carrion smiled grimly, pushing away his blade.  
'You got me good, Solitude.'  
Nelkir rested his sword tip on the ground and offered the Breton a hand. 'You got me better yesterday.'  
Carrion stood, rubbing his throat. 'I don't remember that.'  
'I wouldn't flatter you without cause,' Nelkir assured him, slightly coldly.  
Carrion eyed him with a strange look. 'I bet.'  
'Done, ladies?' It was Carl Damon Herrifield, a second son of some minor clan. Even in the Blades, the traditions of the races held, and each man kept his titles and names, although Nordic culture was definitely best held, probably because the Blade Master was a Nord, and the fact they made up a decent sixty percent of the people here. 'Put away your swords and report to Caladis. He'll assign you your tasks.' Damon was a fair Master-At-Arms, but unyielding, so no one dragged their feet while putting away his precious 'ladies', his preferred name for the swords. _Even if they are cheap, blunted knock offs,_ Nelkir reflected, turning the blade in his hand.  
He hung up his sword on the rack and turned, before almost colliding with Marco.  
'Watch it, Nelkir,' the imperial said, pushing off the larger Nord.  
Solitude smiled and stepped back, turning back to his sword to make sure it was in place. 'What were you doing?'

'Sent to archery,' Marco complained. 'I swear those bows are meant for men the size of mountains,' he gave the Nord an annoyed look; 'with the muscles to go with it. I prefer the bloody sword!' he cried, shaking a practice dummy as if it was one of the senior Blades members. Nelkir chuckled and started to walk out, making his way through the halls of Sky Haven Temple. Caladis and Marco followed, joking about something.

The temple itself, as with most things in Skyrim, was actually a fortress given a fancy name. The stone work was ancient, and solid. It was built right into a mountain in the Karth Region, situated within The Reach. The temple had been built as an Akaviri fortress during the First Century by the original Blades. It had only been rediscovered a decade ago, by Jon Stormcloak and the last of the ancient order. _The man seems to follow me._ Nelkir wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

It had been an easy thing to join the Blades. After he had recovered from his wounds, much to the surprise of the healers, he had been taken on a recruit. Nelkir had nowhere else to go, and this place offered the chance of a new beginning, something he sorely needed. Marco had stuck to him, something the Bastard had been immensely relieved about; he needed a friend. Ironically, that was not what he lacked anymore. Without his bastard surname, it had been easy to connect with his fellows and most of the prisoners he had rescued had joined the Blades as well. After all, whatever else had happened, they were still convicts with pasts that they wanted to leave behind. _It's strange how a certain type of situation could change a man,_ Nelkir reflected quietly.

They passed through the corridors, past granite engravings and glowing braziers. Nelkir had to admit that spending so much time underground was oppressive; light poured in from the halls at the top of the mountain, and the practice arena itself was situated on a rocky bluff overlooking The Reach, but even so, Nelkir couldn't help having a feeling that he was being steadily crushed. _Maybe that's just the oaths though_. The Blades commanded loyalty from their members.  
Nelkir pushed open the door into the Steward, Caladis', study which was large and spacious. Sky Haven only had one Steward, who oversaw the general working of the fortress, and one Healer, who was assisted by aides. The Blades also catered for a Wizard, though no one saw him, in addition to traditional Blade ranks, such as First Sword, First Shadow, First Archivist and Master, who oversaw the entire order in a province. And then of course there was the Grandmaster, the title held by Jon Stormcloak, as the Dragonborn. From what Nelkir heard, he rarely visited, which the Bastard was pleased about. He didn't feel like showing off to Stormcloak about his new life. After Jarl Jon's death, one of his sons would take over as Grandmaster, as specified by their link to the Dragonblood.

Nelkir put the thoughts from his mind as he shuffled forward in the queue. There were about ten new recruits, and every afternoon they were assigned to a different task to determine where their strengths lay, so that they might be matched to the correct area within the Blades. Arras, the thief from their escape, shot Solitude a black look as he made his way past, one that Nelkir returned in kind.  
'I hope I get put on hunting duty.' Nelkir glanced back to see Farmin, a lithe Redguard, grinning round at them. He was the best fighter among them, which had annoyed Marco to no end; he had wanted to have that honour, but after the Redguard had bested him a month ago, it had been obvious who the superior swordsman was.

Nelkir sighed, but said nothing. Carrion spoke for him. 'You always want to go hunting.'

Farmin shrugged. 'It's fun, out in the open. I better get put in the Swords when this finally comes to head.'

'Everyone wants to go into the Swords,' Carrion objected. 'Doesn't mean any of us will.'

'You're joking?' Marco asked, raising his eyebrow. 'He's the best sword among us.' Nelkir could testify to that; he still had the bruises. 'Anyway, the Shadows aren't that bad. They're the real heart of the Blades.' No one could object to that; they went around Tamriel, spying on the enemy and taking them down discreetly. They were too sneaky for Nelkir's taste though, like some second hand Dark Brotherhood.

'Next.' The Bastard stepped up to Caladis' desk, where he was peering at some parchment. 'Nelkir of Solitude, yes?' The Bastard nodded and he looked down at the parchment. 'You'll be assisting Master Esbern.'

That surprised him. He stepped away from the desk, a little bemused as his friends began jeering. 'Have fun with the old man. You'll be sitting reading to him!' Farmin joked.

'Enough,' snapped Caladis. 'Don't speak like that about the Master.'

Farmin nodded, cowed and shuffled up to be assigned. Nelkir gave them a nod and strode down the corridors, wondering where the hell he was going. From all accounts Master Esbern had been capable, but he was seventy now, possibly the oldest man alive, and somewhat doddery. As a result, Nelkir wasn't too enthusiastic about his placement; it wouldn't be fun, or interesting.

Suddenly, a shape entered his vision. He tried to stop, but they went sprawling to the floor. Nelkir snapped back to reality painfully; his elbow had landed on the hard concrete. He let out a curse and rubbed it before he noticed the girl next to him.

She was dressed in light wool, not the dark blue of the Blades, and she carried a roll of parchment in one hand. Her eyes were what struck Nelkir first; they were a deep purple, and burned fiercely like a raging fire, yet still soft, like a pool of clear water. Otherwise she was forgettable. Her dark hair was tied back, and her thin face wasn't exactly beautiful.

'What the hell was that?'

'Huh?' Nelkir didn't know what else to say. Her voice had a pleasant lilt.

'Why did you knock me over?' she demanded.

'Well, I…' The bastard frowned. He wasn't normally lost for words. 'Well, I-'

She stood, and brushed herself off. 'It'd better be good.'

Nelkir stood as well, towering over her. She was short for a Nord. Her figure was plain as well; small breasts, narrow hips. She can't have been more than sixteen. 'It is a good excuse,' Nelkir said, rubbing his neck. 'It's so good you'll be lost for words, when I think it up.'

The girl stared at him strangely, before laughing suddenly, like a summer rain. Nelkir was taken aback. He decided that she was annoying, and that he didn't like her. The girl managed to control herself, fixing a hard expression to her face. 'You owe me now.' Nelkir just blinked. _What the hell is wrong with me? I should just ignore her_, he decided resolutely. But he was already nodding. 'Good,' she confirmed happily, binding him to his promise. 'Can you take me to this place? I'm new here.' _Wasn't I going to see the Master?_ It didn't matter now. She held out the parchment, shoving it into Nelkir's face. He swiped it from her hand, eyeing her carefully. She was a definitely a Nord, like himself, with an infectious personality. She couldn't seem to stay still.

Nelkir looked down at the parchment, which turned out to be an exceptionally bad map. 'They gave you this?' he questioned, turning it over in his hand.

'Yeah, it's crap. I've been wandering for about ten minutes. I was actually trying to find the Steward.'

Nelkir nodded. 'I was just with him. I'll trade you the map for my help.' After all, he needed some way to find Master Esbern without having to ask anyone.

'Go ahead,' she said brightly, having already forgiven his knocking her over. They started walking and she held out her hand, catching Nelkir by surprise. 'My name's Thaena.'

'Nelkir, of Solitude,' he said slowly, taking her hand. The grip was again nothing special.

'Solitude, huh?' Thaena's eyes took on a concentrated light. 'I used to live in Solitude. In one of the smaller houses.'

'That's me too,' Nelkir lied quickly.

'Really?' She put a finger to her lips, as if trying to indicate something. 'You have a nice voice. It's strong, but quite posh.'

Solitude looked away quickly, trying to suppress the rush of emotions that threatened to flood his mind in an explosion of pride, and… gratitude for the compliment. 'I spent a lot of time around a carl. I was his servant,' he explained briefly.

'Right,' she agreed, not sounding at all convinced. Clearly Thaena was smarter than his friends, who had probably never met a noble, or weren't Nords. 'Well, I lived in that area as well. I'm surprised I don't know you. I met almost everyone in that city,' she confided with him. Nelkir reflected on how quickly her mood had changed. It was… exhilarating.

Suddenly, they were there, which was a welcome relief. 'This is it,' the Bastard told her quickly, trying to remove unpleasant thoughts from his mind.

Thaena looked the door over with a dubious glare, before turning back to Nelkir. 'I'm sure we'll meet again. Until then… Nelkir Solitude.' And then she entered the door, closing it behind her.

The Bastard stepped back with a frown, confused. He shook his head and tried to follow the map to the Master's quarters. It was indeed crap, but Nelkir managed to decipher it, arriving five minutes after the time that he was probably expected to have been there. He knocked on the door once, and waited. The reply was slow, but came out in a great booming voice.

'Enter!'

Nelkir pushed the door open, taking in the massive size of the room first, noting the door that led to the Master's personal quarters, before turning his attention to the man himself. Esbern was another Nord, also short by their standards like Thaena, with a bush of white hair on the back of his head, but none on the front, and a craggy face. He was wearing dark blue robes, and a dagger, all of which was clean and neat. He looked up.

'Ah, yes? Close the door, my boy. Sit over here if you will.' Nelkir did as he bid, making his way over cautiously. 'Ah yes,' he murmured again. 'Not a good thing I think.'

'My lord?' The Bastard asked. It was also wise to be careful around nobles and leaders.

Esbern snapped up. 'Excuse me?' He glanced down at the parchment. 'Oh, my apologies. Feel free to read it.' He nearly passed the letter over, but then took it back. 'I don't suppose you can read though.'

Nelkir felt a flash of anger before he remembered his supposed status; he was a peasant. Likely as not, he couldn't read. 'No, my lord.'

'No matter. We can teach you,' Esbern said kindly. Nelkir nodded a little sceptically; the Master did indeed appear to be a bit of a doddery old man.

The Bastard waited, but still Esbern said nothing, so he ventured a response carefully. 'Why am I here, my lord?'

'Well, because I called you here of course!' he replied triumphantly.

'Why?'

Esbern leant closer. 'I've seen you in the yard, and at dinner. I've also heard of your remarkable entrance. Needless to say, you've intrigued me.'

'But Farmin's the better sword, and I'm not the speaker at dinner,' Nelkir pointed out.

'No, but you're the leader.' The Bastard was taken aback by this simple comment, but it was true, wasn't it? He _was_ the leader of their group. He had drawn them together, and held them there. 'I have an interest in leaders,' Esbern prattled on. 'I've seen many. The late Emperor Titus Mede II, Ulfric Stormcloak, Jon Stormcloak, his son…'

'I know Jon Stormcloak,' Nelkir blurted out before he could stop himself. _Why did everything seem to lead to that man? _

Esbern frowned. 'I thought you came from Solitude?'

'I do, it's just, he,' Nelkir fumbled for a response; 'let me stay at his camp once, while I was travelling here.' The Bastard cursed his impulsive stupidity.

The Master didn't say anything. He just eyed Nelkir carefully. 'In any case, I think you have a bright future. You know the Blades are sworn to protect the Dragonborn.'

'I thought we fought the Thalmor.'

Esbern grimaced, as if remembering painful memories. 'An unfortunate distraction.' He noticed Nelkir's expression, and turned suddenly sharp. The Bastard couldn't guess at what had caused this change, even as he studied the other Nord intently. 'They are powerful, and dangerous,' Esbern continued; 'but we are sworn to protect the dragonblood. I sent the Dragonguard out to Jon now that the war has started, as is our true duty.'

'Wait! There's a war? What war?' Nelkir demanded, shocked. News was reserved for the inducted Blades, not the recruits, and they were careful at guarding it.

Esbern regarded him carefully again. 'It really is none of your concern.'

'But I want to know,' Nelkir told him forcedly. 'My lord,' he added clumsily.

'Determination,' the Master mused. 'A strong trait.' He made up his mind. 'I am sorry, my boy, but a civil war has broken out. Hmm, yes, dark tidings indeed,' he mused to himself, before turning back to Nelkir. 'I received the word from Jon's own hand. The last time we had one of these…' he lapsed into uncomfortable silence.

'You mean Ulfric Stormcloak's rebellion?'

Esbern gave him a surprised look. 'A learned peasant, and a leader. What am I to make of you? Where did you learn that?'

Nelkir could have punched himself for his carelessness. 'You hear talk,' he explained shortly.

'Did you ever play as Ulfric Stormcloak?' Esbern asked with an amused smile. 'I hear the boys like to run around as General Tullius, and Jon Stormcloak, even our good king. Balgruuf.'

Nelkir scowled. 'With all due respect, my lord, I don't think that's your business.'

'It's not,' Esbern agreed, nodding vigorously. 'But I like to ask anyway.' They sat in silence for a few seconds, before the Master turned his attention to what he was presumably planning in the first place. 'I would like you to clean my room, and then I was going to go through some accounts with you. Show you how things are run, and managed. You know numbers?' Nelkir nodded. Even a peasant was given a rudimentary education into them. 'Good.'

The Bastard stood and got to work. The cleaning was dire, but not as bad as it could have been. Even as he worked, dusting a corner, a thought entered his mind. It jostled the others to the back, forcing its unwelcome way forward. Thaena. Try as he might, Nelkir couldn't push her from his mind. It was like a summer storm, raging outside window. No matter how much you tried to ignore it, it invaded your privacy; it stuck. Which was strange for something so… forgettable.

**Please review guys. Er, I feel like I should say something funny. How about; why did the two knights crossed the road? Because they were on opposite sides! (You know, to fight, and er… yeah, well. I'm sorry. I won't do that again.) **


	37. The Forest of Memories

**The battle approaches. Let's dive back into Jon's messed up mind for some more self regret. I think this is a pretty cool chapter myself and I enjoyed the conversation with Balgruuf and Jon, but I'll see what **_**you**_** think. **

**Which brings me onto the fact that you could review to tell me what you think! Yeah. **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Well, it's all good then. I'm glad you like Aretino, but don't… Esbern is very cool. Like seriously cool. I mean, very cool. Nope, no Daedra has possessed Nelkir. It is simply guiding him, but not controlling him. Nelkir can ignore it as he wishes. It's just that Nelkir is happy (a rare thing, I know.) Thaena knows all right. I know what you mean. Love is not something I like to break, but characters and Empires, I'm very good at. But that can wait for later. Don't worry, I'll keep Nelkir action going while navigating the river of love. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked it. The plan is to get Thaena and Nelkir together. Whether they will is a different matter. Marco was there, but Farmin wasn't in the group. There are mercenaries on Silver-Blood's side, and a few on Balgruuf's. About 10,000 a piece. To Spartacus1244, thanks for the Story Favourite and Favourite. To That Guy (nice name) for the reviews! I'm glad you like both Nelkir and Jon! Thanks to everyone who posted a review and all that. Seriously, it's brilliant. So, thank you for all the support. **

**I hope you like this. Just to sate you; it'll be an Idgrod chapter next (where political intrigue will make things very dangerous) and then a Thorek chapter (always fun), and then the battle itself (but I'll keep the POV to myself. Feel free to take a guess; I don't think it's a huge mystery.) **

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak**

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak rubbed his** eyes as he stared into the middle distance. It was late evening, the hour that everyone was packing up and preparing for sleep. He barely even had tiid, _time_, to register the sounds of horses, and the footsteps that were dying outside such were the depths of his thoughts, even as the darkness outside crept forward. They, the King and the other Jarls, were to meet Thongvor Silver-Blood tomorrow in a last ditch attempt to try and end the war. It had occurred to Jon that this might be the solution to his problem; the problem that haunted the dark corridors of his hahdrim, _mind_, even now. His death.

Jon might have made the decision to go to war, but that by no means meant that he was prepared to die. His very being was repulsed even at the thought of it and sent up desperate signals of self-preservation, ones that Jon was finding steadily more difficult to try and resist. He couldn't possibly not dir, _die_, though, or else Alsfur would die, and then… what then? He was his son. If he couldn't die for him, what could he die for? _I was prepared for death in order to defeat Alduin, _his mind told him guiltily. _I had accepted it, for what? _For Skyrim? For its people? And yet, he couldn't muster the courage to die for his son? Guilty, degrading thoughts assaulted his mind when these thoughts crept in. Feelings of self-disgust, and pity. It made Jon sick, but he couldn't throw off this desire to live, and that made it worse. Likely, any other father would give up his life in an instant, but here he was, still struggling with his conscience, with his love, four months later.

When things got like this, Jon found that it was best to get some fresh su, _air_. He stood heavily and pulled on a heavy fur cloak over his shirt, and braved the night air outside. It was sharp; the cold bit into his flesh like Alduin's claws. It wasn't a pleasant feeling; every time he thought about them digging in, shivers of icy fear crawled under his flesh.

Jon sucked in the air as if his life depended on it. It burnt his lungs with his fus, _fiery_, coldness though and he started coughing and spluttering. When he was done, Jon felt even worse. He had realised quite suddenly, possibly only a month ago, that he really did need Ysold. She was like his healer; she took care of him. She had tried to stay with him for as long as possible to nurse his wounded pride and broken body from the events in Whiterun, but soon enough they had left for war. Jon Stormcloak had left with Alsfur, his secret burden, as his only support, and found he wasn't enough. Alsfur did his best, but he was no Ysold, and Jon was no friend in war. In truth, as much as he despised himself for it, Stormcloak saw Alsfur as the cause of all his problems. It had soured their relationship to the extent that they could barely stay in the same room for more than a few minutes, and rarely talked with each other out of choice.

Where he and Alsfur had separated, it seemed that he and Balgruuf had grown closer. Their friendship had been forged in the fires of kein, _war_, and now that they were in one again, it was being re-forged and sharpened, created from the shattered remains of the last. It was satisfying; Balgruuf was an able commander, and an astute personality. _So, why had he made such a bad King?_ Perhaps it was because power wasn't formed on a battlefield, not really. It was simply a path to power. Balgruuf had had a chance to make his mark in the court, with the people, through his decisions but he had wasted it. _Could I have done better? Certainly I have better people surrounding me. _It was enough to keep Jon up at vulon, _night_, and something he been thinking about a lot recently, especially after Paarthurnax's angry disappointment in this regard. _Would they be fighting this war if I was king? _Maybe, but then, maybe not. In any case, his thoughts had left him with a clear impression of what needed to be done; they had to make peace tomorrow, if Skyrim was to survive. And himself…

Jon trudged through the camp, ignoring everyone, lost as he was in his own thoughts. The ground was dry, and it rustled under his boots as he passed by dark tents. It was like wandering through a moonlit forest of memories; one glance and they came flooding back. Jon turned his attention from the 'trees' and looked up at the sky; it was peppered with stars. He remembered the nights he had spent with Ysold, when they were young, watching the sky under Rorikstead. Those had been the same stars that had dogged him through his childhood, and as he crossed Skyrim, spilling blood for anyone with enough money. Jon stopped, and stood, watching them. He pursed his lips as he tried to recall the faces of the others in his mercenary group, the 'Dragon Blades.' But time was a greedy thing; it stole the memories for itself. All he remembered now was his first kill, sos, _blood,_ death and pain. _There had to have been more to it, hadn't there? _But Jon wasn't too sure; like Mother with Ulfric, Ysold had saved him. He blew out a breath, and foggy steam burst from his lips like the thu'um. Jon sighed and trudged on further into the night. It was only then that he noticed Ralof, following him like a shadow, but Stormcloak didn't feel like talking to him now, but he didn't want to be alone, so instead he said nothing. Jon continued on gloomily, until he came to a hill overlooking the camp.

He climbed it quickly, but when he reached the top he was surprised to see Balgruuf. The King of Skyrim was standing on the edge of the grassy ledge, surveying his army. His zahkrii, _sword_, hung at his side, but otherwise he was un-armoured and uncrowned. His grey-blue eyes were sombre. Jon glanced at Ralof and dismissed him; it was time that he and Balgruuf talked again, as they had in the old days, and he wanted to do it alone. The Housecarl strode off without a word, and Jon turned his attention to his king.

Balgruuf's silver hair stirred in the ven, _wind,_ and his strong jaw was set. He worked it slightly from side to side, as if in great concentration. He probably was though; his crown hung on the outcome of tomorrow.

'Jon Stormcloak,' Balgruuf began, not looking back at the Jarl. Jon didn't bow, or nod, instead he stood next to the King, as equals. Wind-Shifter nodded at this. He was still insightful. 'This is all wrong, isn't it?'

'What do you mean, Balgruuf?' Jon asked grimly. He thought he already knew.

'You and me. This position. Why are we like this?' Jon stayed silent, and he turned to him, eyeing him with a degree of hostility, demanding an answer, but before Stormcloak could speak, he started talking again. 'What hope did I have at playing king? You are the Dragonborn.' As he said these words, his voice lost his edge. It was an admission, which surprised Jon a little.

'No one could have known what mistakes we were making all those years ago,' Jon agreed. His voice was too harsh to provide any comfort, nor would he want to give any; Balgruuf was a man, and a king, not a boy.

'If I could go back, I would put the crown on you. You, and no one else. I think you'll find the other Jarls would do the same.'

Jon nodded, the crushing reality returning. All the suleyk, all the _power,_ had been within his grasp. He had only needed to… reach out, and _take_ it. But he hadn't; he had crumbled, and fallen. And now, ten years later, maybe eleven now, here they were, on the verge of a war.

Balgruuf's voice tore through his prison of regret. 'We meet Silver-Blood tomorrow,' Balgruuf told you, with the voice of a man who was admitting a hard truth, his tone despondent.  
'Yes, we are.'  
The King frowned. 'You could say a lot more, Jon.'  
He nodded slowly in agreement. 'I could...' Jon fixed Balgruuf with a piercing stare; 'but what would that achieve?'

The King became gloomy, and sighed. 'Nothing, I suppose.'  
'Save the words for tomorrow, and the swords for the day after,' Jon declared melancholy. 'Yes, ahrk fin zahkrii fah fin sul,' he muttered again.

Balgruuf ignored the draconic with an upturned eyebrow and frowned, working his jaw again with agitation. 'You don't think we'll get peace?'  
Jon had known it since the day he agreed to go to war, despite his desperation to make it true; his death was set in war, so there had to be a war. 'Nid. No,' he added for Balgruuf's sake.  
'Silver-Blood is a surprising man.'  
'Which is why we stand here, fighting for your kingdom... again,' Jon added with a thin smile.  
Balgruuf frowned again, as he was wont to do in Jon's presence. 'You're as cold as winter, and as dark as my nightmares.'  
_Ysold would disagree with the first one_. 'Not as dark as my dreams, Balgruuf,' Stormcloak replied dryly. The King didn't disagree.  
'Can we win the battle then?'  
Jon was tempted to say no. It was in the tip of his tongue, but Balgruuf's face was desperate. Stormcloak decided to humour him, once. 'Maybe.'  
The King sighed, frustrated. 'Give me some hope, Stormcloak.' He turned away, rubbing his hands. 'I don't want to know what torments your serfs are subjected to,' he grumbled.  
'Peace, for one,' Jon told him. The look he gave Balgruuf was hard.  
The King's eyes flashed with anger, but as they were, a King and a Hero, Balgruuf had no authority over him. He changed the subject less gracefully than he could have. 'We could fix this land, if we win this war, Jon.' Stormcloak gave him a blank stare and the King continued. 'I want to marry my daughter to your son,' Balgruuf announced abruptly.  
Jon smiled wryly. 'I'm not sure that's a good idea.'  
'Why not?' the King asked, baffled.  
Stormcloak shrugged. 'What's she like?'

'Gentle, wilful, good looking.'  
_Just Alsfur's type._ He smiled properly. 'It seems a good match.'  
'So, you'll agree,' Balgruuf asked, almost anxiously.

Jon regarded him with a scrutinising stare. His eyes danced with light, and the silver rims glowed silently. But Balgruuf needed not worry; Jon just nodded.

The King let out a sigh of relief, and put a hand on Jon's shoulder. 'You and me, Jon. We will win back this Kingdom.'

'It that it, Your Majesty?' Jon wanted time to think now, and he had other things to do besides before the night was out.

Balgruuf looked a little disappointed, but he forced a smile and nodded. 'Get your rest, Jon. Tomorrow will not be an easy day.'

Stormcloak nodded in agreement. Regardless of the outcome, it _was_ going to be a very hard day. He inclined his head and strode off, his feet crunching on the dry grass. It wasn't long before his impending death worked its way back into his thoughts, but he managed to throw it off. Jon made his way to Alsfur's tent, his mind set.

It was dimly lit, but Jon could see only one figure through the fabric, hunched over. The steady scraping of a whetstone echoed through Stormcloak's ears. He didn't knock; instead he just strode in, and stood over his kul, _son_, who was honing Kodaav's edge. Jon decided that he needed to talk quickly, before any tension could build between them again.

'You're wasting your time,' he began curtly. Jon winced; it wasn't the best start.

Alsfur looked up, startled. 'Father?'

Jon brought up a stool and sat, frowning a little as he decided how to proceed. 'The blade; you don't have to sharpen it.'

'I like to,' Alsfur said forlornly. 'It gives me a sense of purpose. It makes me feel ready.'

That brought back memories and Jon smiled. 'I remember my first battle. It was at Whiterun. Surrounded by hosts of men, thousands.' He nodded, relishing the feel of it. 'We were all so scared. It was your mother who made me ready.'

Alsfur groaned. 'Father, I don't need to hear more of your sex stories.'

Suddenly Jon was laughing, sudden as a storm, smiling at his son's immense discomfit. 'I didn't mean it like that,' he chuckled. 'What I'm trying to say is that it's normal for you to be worried. To be scared.'

Alsfur's eyes shone with hopeful relief. 'Really?' He turned away, his brow furrowed. 'I thought it was just me.'

Jon shook his head. 'Everyone feels fear on the eve of battle; from the man-at-arms to the King.' He leaned in closer. 'Alsfur, even I am scared.'

The younger Stormcloak shook his head. 'Really, you?'

'Why not?' It felt strange, but it suddenly clicked. Jon knew what to say. 'You know, I've never told you about my days hunting Alduin. To your credit you never asked.' He sighed, digging up deeply repressed memories. Jon rubbed his brow. Alsfur was silent; his eyes guarded. 'Being a hero is not what you think. It wasn't easy, it still isn't easy, in fact,' Jon reflected. 'It was heartbreaking work. Perhaps I didn't realise that at the time, but Alsfur,' he grasped his son's shoulder; 'I lost. Alduin broke me. I was defeated the first time I tried to fight him. I was scared, and not ready.' He traced the scar that cut a jagged path down his cheek and under his jaw. 'See this; the price of failure. It hurts…' Jon fixed Alsfur with a penetrating stare. 'But remember. Being a hero, or a good Jarl, it isn't about doing it perfectly the first time. It's about having the courage to get back up from the utter brink of defeat, and marching on. It doesn't matter what happens, but if you keep getting back up, then you can't lose. And that brings me onto the reason for my visit.' Jon reached behind him and pulled out a large horn, made of gleaming white ivory, and banded in silver. Draconic runes lined the shining metal. 'Here, I want you to have this. I always used it in my battles, and it always brought my men back from the brink of defeat. It is a very special horn; the horn of Jurgen Windcaller.' He ran his hands over it; 'a horn made for leaders.' He held it out to his son. 'Take it.' Alsfur did so carefully, and Jon stood. 'I have one more gift for you. I want you to take my armour.'

'The skyforge steel?' Alsfur asked incredulously. 'Eorlund Graymane made that for you. The armour of heroes!' His mind was clearly racing; Jon was surprised to see how defiant he looked now. 'I won't take it. It's yours.'

'Alsfur-' Jon began.

'What would I tell mother, if I did take it? I've already taken your sword, now your horn. I would never forgive myself if I took your protection.'

Jon eyed him carefully. In truth he was pleased to see the same fire he had always prided himself on in his convictions. 'As you wish. Good night, Alsfur.' And then he left, his mind reeling. It was over so quickly. Jon could almost sense Alsfur's eyes on his back. Stormcloak shook his head, trying to dispel dark thoughts, and the building fear, until he reached his tent. Ralof was waiting outside.

'How was it?' he asked softly.

Jon frowned. 'I don't know. I feel like I'm trying to protect everybody.'

Ralof chucked. 'That's because you always are.'

Stormcloak looked down, thinking, more musing in truth. _That's Ralof's thing._ 'Right. I'll see you for the battle tomorrow.'

'We're just going to talk. There might not be a battle,' Ralof pointed out.

'Of course, how could I forget,' he agreed, taken aback by his own defeatism. 'Get some sleep,' he told his Housecarl before entering his tent. Once there he slumped down, and the ved, _black_, thoughts started to strangle his mind again. His throat felt tight.

**Please review! Let's get up to the magic 400! But thanks for the support and I hope that was good. **


	38. A Rare Talent

**First of all, thank you to everyone that helped with the birthday story! You know who you are, and I've Pm messaged you. To those guys who wanted to do it, but couldn't, also, thank you. **

**In addition, I just wanted to thank you guys for the massive amount of reviewing that you guys did. So, again, brilliant. Also very cool to see lots of 'veterans' return to review, so cheers! Have a drink! I was given plenty for my birthday. **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for all the reviews. I like being spammed with them; not only are they fun to read, but they increase the review count, so cheers. The Sheograth thing really freaked me out, but it was very funny, so nice one. Sorry about the mistake and I'm also really pleased with the progression and how you liked it. You're analysis was pretty damn good; is Jon turning into Alduin? Hmmm. An interesting question, that one. To be fair, Jon never really considered himself over Balgruuf, but being a hero is technically up there with a King. Still, some great stuff there. Guess we'll see what happens. I also liked the Delphine and Paarthy story. Weird, but… connected. You were perfectly on tiem with the birthday congratulations, so thanks. To shamesh, thanks for the Story Favourite and Story Follower! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I' really pleased you liked and great insight into Jon's inner conflicts. It was really cool and great to read. You were right on tie with the birthday congratulations, so thank you! **

**The reviews were great this time, and there were loads, so thanks! Really, it was amazing! **

**And unrelated, I'm hoping Jennifer Lawrence will win the Oscar tomorrow. I mean, she was in a movie that wasn't boring and she's hot, so that should be enough. **

… **And she's a good actress, but that doesn't really matter. Any ideas on what you want to win tomorrow at the Oscars? **

**A little slow, this one, but Thorek returns next time and we all know how… unslow, he can be. Thanks again. **

**Idgrod, the Younger **

**Idgrod Ravencrone II stared out **of her window, as the riders set off. She sighed, and traced her finger along her windowsill. It came up dusty. Her mind wandered back to the dream she had had earlier so vivid, as always.

_Riders in the dark, the fires appearing under her window. _Like before, the dream stopped just as they were about to dismount, leaving her frustrated, despite the cold fear that travelled down her spine at the sight of them. That had melted away to be replaced by the silver dragon. This time, gold shimmered off its scales, possibly from the armour of the men that surrounded it. They stepped forward, ready to finish it off, but then it opened its eyes and roared. Idgrod had woken in a hot sweat, though she was sure that wasn't possible. Even so, it felt like she had been hit by the dragon's fire. Breathing heavily, Idgrod had sat by the window, waiting for the dreams to leave her. But they didn't. And that found her here, watching the empty square of Morthal, back to the dull life it offered. She missed Thorek. His fire, as uncouth as it was, had been exciting and liberating. She hadn't felt so constrained, and if there was one thing she hated, it was constraint.

It was early morning and Idgrod needed to get out so she pushed away from the window, taking the steps two at a time into the main hall of Highmoon Hall. Her mother was sitting on her throne, staring into the middle distance. She snapped her attention to her daughter as soon as she entered the room.

'Are you going to see Djurien today?'

'Maybe,' the Younger mumbled.

Mother pursed her lips. 'Things are about to change rapidly, my daughter. You will need to be ready for the worse.'

'Spare me,' Idgrod said, turning away, suddenly angry when Mother started pressuring her.

'Idgrod!' her mother snapped. 'Listen to me. While Father is away fighting in Balgruuf's war, you will need to be careful. Keep Djurien close; you will need him far more than you expect. I also want you to look after Joric.'

Idgrod bit her lip, concerned. Joric was her thirteen year old younger brother, and sickly. He couldn't control the visions the Ravencrone's were prone to have. He entered the room now, his black hair messy and unkempt, looking paler and thinner than he had been the last time Idgrod had seen him. With a sharp stab of guilt she realised that she had hardly thought of him since she had left for Whiterun.

Joric Ravencrone turned his deep green eyes on her. They were dazzling, and scary. They looked as if they had seen a thousand years, with thin trails of gold that tore apart the dark, murky green. But his face was happy, and he smiled. 'Hello, sister.' Joric seemed more mature than when she had left him before the court at Whiterun. Recently, since returning, Idgrod had looked in on him, but not as well as she should have. That was going to change. Ravencrone put on a big smile.

'Hey, little bro. How was your sleep?' She gave him a big hug, to try and remove the feelings of being trapped between two unstoppable forces that were her mother, and now, unsettlingly, Joric.

'Fine, I guess. When I actually managed to get to sleep, that is,' he said with a depressed edge.

Idgrod eyed her mother. 'I'm going to see Djurien. Do you want to come?'

Joric shrugged and mother leant forward. 'Shall I get Carl Gorm to go with you?'

Gorm was Mother's Housecarl, a big brute of a man, uncommonly skilled with his greatsword and axe. Idgrod shook her head; he unnerved her, and besides, Djurien would be good enough to protect them.

Idgrod ushered her brother from the hall, pulling two thin, fur-lined cloaks off the wall and wrapping him in it tenderly. With bemused surprise, Idgrod realised that Joric was near as tall as her, with a lanky build. His thin face didn't give off the impression of strength though, so she put an arm around him and drew him close. Joric tried to pull away.

'What is it?' Idgrod asked, a little hurt as they stepped along the street.

He looked around furtively. 'I don't want to be seen being mollycoddled by my sister,' he mumbled.

His reaction was so funny that Idgrod started laughing. 'No, of course not! What was I thinking? You know, when I was younger, I hated it everytime Mother took my hand when touring the estates.'

'She never took my hand,' Joric commented, not at all jealous.

'Must have been because I'm her "little girl".'

'You're going to be the Jarl though. Of course Mother is going to be protective.'

'I don't think it's quite like that,' Idgrod replied quickly, lengthening her stride. Joric matched it though.

'I do. You know, Mother is so obsessive with you because she wants you to be a good Jarl. She believes in you, and you should too. Both in yourself, and her.'

Idgrod stopped walking, her brow furrowing. 'How do you know this?'

'I see things,' Joric replied, giving her a pensive look.

The Younger only had to glance at his eyes to agree. _I bet you do… _

Instead she said; 'I'll treat Mother with more respect then from now on.'

'That's all I ask,' Joric told his sister, before walking again. Idgrod followed him with an amused expression. _Here he is, giving me advice now. How the times have changed. _That said, she was till unsure as to how exactly she was going to deal with Mother in the future.

Idgrod glanced around the town to distract herself and wrapped her arm around Joric again. 'I wouldn't worry about being seen with your big sister.' Her eyes scanned the houses and road, and she frowned. 'There are few enough people around now.'

Joric nodded. 'The war will be the death of Morthal.' He jerked his head lightly in the direction of the mill, the sole source of income for the town, as they exited the town from across the bridge. 'I don't know how they plan to keep the town going, especially after Mother had to pay so much to raise the banners.'

'We'll be fine,' Idgrod assured him. 'This isn't the first time that Morthal has been to war. It'll be you leading our banners soon, you know. You'll be mighty.'

Joric looked unsure. 'Mighty, and dead. War doesn't suit me. You'll be Jarl; why don't you lead the banners?'

'I'm female,' she said with a twist of her mouth. 'There are very few women in war.'

Her brother shrugged. 'I don't think it makes a difference. You can lift a sword, can't you?'

Idgrod frowned. 'Of course I can.'

'Then you can fight,' Joric said simply.

'Maybe. I think you'll find there is a lot more to it than that.'

Joric nodded, acknowledging her point but he disagreed. 'I don't think so. As a leader, you must set an example. It only has to be a sword in your hand, at the front, to inspire your men.'

Idgrod just looked at him, deciding how to respond, eventually deciding just to treat it like a playful remark so she ruffled his hair. 'I think I should just pass the title to you.'

'I don't want to be Jarl. I wouldn't make a good one.'

'Why not? You could do it,' Idgrod urged.

Joric shrugged non-committal. 'Maybe.'

Idgrod saved him the awkwardness and changed the topic. 'You could help out with the mill later then. It'll give the people hope.'

'They'll want word of the war.'

'Then give it to them,' Idgrod told him. But now she was distracted. It was true what Joric said; he would never be Jarl, most likely. In Skyrim, there was no male prerogative; all children were equal in the line of succession. That said, it was a stupid idea to expect the Nords, the warrior race, to hold to this principle. It was custom, but most Thanes and Jarls chose their eldest son as their heir, but dared not push it further, onto the second son, for example. If Mother didn't favour Idgrod so strongly, it wouldn't be so unlikely that Joric would become Jarl after her death. The King was saved this 'struggle'; his sons came before, as dictated by the need to have a 'strong leader' on the throne. Apparently, girls didn't fit that bill.

They finally reached Djurien's farm, just as the sun was reaching its peak. It was a warm spring day, for Skyrim, and the crops shone in the new sun. Idgrod sighed, stopping outside the boundaries, one hand on Joric's shoulder. This was going to be rough. She could see Djurien now. On her approach, he looked up, and leaned on his hoe, watching her with dark eyes. He had grown out his blond hair, so now it reached to his shoulders, lightly curly.

'Idgrod and Joric Ravencrone,' he muttered. 'I haven't seen you in a while.' Without warning he rushed forward, lifting Idgrod and spinning her. Despite herself, the Younger let out a giggle and kicked him, completely caught off guard with pleasant surprise. He dropped her with a grin. 'How are you, Joric?' he asked her brother, putting a hand on his shoulder. 'It's good to see you out of bed.'

Her brother shrugged. 'I'm fine. Bored though.'

'No longer, I think. Follow me.' He led them back into the house and through a door into his bedroom, as if the last few months had never happened. Idgrod hadn't told him of Thorek, and he was obviously willing to give her space since her return from Whiterun and she loved him for that. His bedroom was fairly small, but there was an elaborate chest in one corner, which he rummaged around in, finally pulling something out with a triumphant cry. With a flourish he turned around, presenting Joric with a sword.

'A tourney blade,' her brother said unnecessarily.

'Right. I'm going to teach you to fight.'

Joric glanced at Idgrod. 'I'm not sure that it's a good idea-'

The Younger looked at Djurien, pleased. Her brother needed to learn eventually, and he might even enjoy it. 'Nonsense,' she exclaimed. 'I think it's a brilliant idea. Here, we'll take it into the woods. You still have my bow, Djurien?'

He put on a look of mock affront. 'Naturally. Here.' He fished it out of his chest and handed it to Idgrod. The wood felt unfamiliar under her hand, but good, and welcome.

'Let's go,' she said, leading them out. Djurien grabbed his own proper sword, and a tourney one.

'You'll enjoy it, Joric. It's a precise skill, but impressive, and exhilarating,' Djurien said as they made their way across the field.

For his part, her brother looked a little sick.

It wasn't that far to the forest, and then they were among the trees, their sheltered blanket. Idgrod breathed in the fresh air, taking a look around while Djurien made his way up to a clearing, surrounded by fallen trees. 'This will do,' he announced, sticking his tourney sword in the ground before glancing around, his eyes sharp. He always did that when they entered the wood. Idgrod took a seat on one of the fallen trees so that she could watch Joric.

Djurien came up to her brother, pulling him into the centre, before starting to instruct him on the grip. Idgrod watched with an amused expression, drinking in the sounds and smells of the forest, enjoying the way it seemed to fill her up. The wind stirred her hair lightly, and she let out a breath. Djurien and Joric started fighting, lightly, with the former calling out instructions. Idgrod decided it was time to catch up with the Carl's son, and forget about Thorek.

'How is your Carlhood going?'

Djurien blocked a clumsy swing from Joric. 'Good. I was actually hoping to be inducted soon.'

'Really? Why aren't you fighting in the war?'

He looked round at her. 'Father left. I had to stay and watch the farm. In truth, I was waiting for you to return.' He parried a swing to his head.

Idgrod looked away to hide her blushing. 'Is that so?' The ring of steel echoed throughout the clearing.

'It is,' he agreed. 'Higher,' he told Joric, before addressing her again. 'I think I will be Carl Djurien soon, which is good.'

Idgrod nodded absently, her mind caught up on another new problem. _What would happen if he did go off to war? She would be left alone, again. _The thought soured her mood.

'Left, Joric. Yes, good. And then, good.' Djurien stepped back, appraising her brother. 'Idgrod, did you know how good a fighter your brother is?'

She shook her head. 'What do you mean?'

'His technique is clumsy at best, as is to be expected, but the boy can just seem to predict my every move. It's a rare talent.' Idgrod shared a look with Joric. _A_ _rare talent…_

'Okay, let's make this harder then. I'll attack, Joric. You just try and guard yourself.' Her brother nodded and Djurien stepped forward, swinging for his head, side and foot in rapid succession. Joric's parries were bad, any real fighter could have knocked them aside, but sure enough he checked all of Djurien's light strikes. The future Carl stepped back, bemused. 'Very good. Okay, let's give it a rest.'

'Did you bring any food?' Idgrod asked.

'No,' Djurien said. 'I forgot.'

'Right, well, we'll just have to make do with nothing.'

'Very funny.' He sat heavily and looked around. Joric was holding his sword, watching it carefully. 'It's a special thing; your first blade,' Djurien said him. 'You'd need a proper one, really, but I don't think Jarl Idgrod would object if you asked nicely.'

'You don't know our mother,' the Younger joked, resting her hands on the bark. Suddenly, a noise caught her attention; voices. She hushed Djurien quickly and turned, slowly creeping forward, away from the clearing, curious. The voices were getting louder; one was deep, the other higher, but both male. A rustle behind her made Idgrod whirl round, only to see Djurien there, his blade drawn. Joric stood behind him. Ravencrone shot them a look, but they stayed, so she continued forward, coming up behind a tree. The voices were just a few metres forward. They were lucky that they were so engrossed in their conversation and that the tree line was so thick, otherwise they might have noticed them.

'We need to do it soon,' the first voice said.

'I know, I know. We'll have to move quickly.'

'Why can't we just strike now?'

'The King needs Sorli to be ready for when it happens. We must be careful. If we're caught, it will mean both our deaths.'

'Murdering the Jarl. A hanging offence?'

'Hung, drawn and quartered, actually.'

Idgrod hardly heard the rest though. _Murdering the Jarl. Mother… _She turned to Djurien, aghast. He gave her a grim look, and edged forward, but she held him back, feeling weak in the knees. They had no idea who was behind there; it could be two trained fighters for all they knew, or more. Joric wasn't ready, and she was next to useless in this situation so Djurien sank back, while Idgrod continued to listen with growing dread as the men plotted to kill the Jarl of Morthal, her mother. The wind rustled lightly.

**Hmmm. Please review and the next one should be good. **


	39. Nordic Peace

**Hello Thorek! Always fun to write. Okay, and here we go. The battle is next chapter but it may take time. I've written most of it, but it is an undoubtedly important moment in the story. **

**The thanks: To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I may explain where its from later, but not just yet and yes, it is very powerful if you use it properly. Who said they wanted to see Idgrod the Younger on the throne? The King's identity will be kept secret for now. The dragon is a good thing to focus on, but I will not say anything. I will update Dragonblood soon, but I'm on a rush with this. To the kodaav (nice name by the way) thanks for the Favourite and Follower, Story Favourite and Story Follower. To Grits 'n' Gravy (another nice name), thanks for the Follower. **

**Please review! I'm loving the support at the moment! **

**Carl Thorek Silver-Blood **

'**Well, that was shit,' Carl **Thorek Silver-Blood told the sweating man-at-arms in front of him. He had hardly broken a sweat, but his opponent was heaving like a stuffed pig. 'Talos above, I expected better from a foot soldier.' Thorek paused, shaking his head sarcastically. 'Oh wait; I didn't. Get up, and try again.'

'My lord, we've been doing this for an hour,' the man protested, but Thorek cut him off.

'Actually, you've been doing nothing for an hour, except learning how to take a beating. Useful,' Thorek conceded; 'if you're coward enough to get captured.'

The man looked sullen but he raised his sword again and Thorek advanced, swinging high, low, high again. The man's parries were weak, and slow. Silver-Blood knocked one aside easily and struck him on the chest. The man staggered back with a cry of pain and Thorek paused. _Perhaps that had been a little too hard. But, _he consoled himself, _if they couldn't take the pain now, they wouldn't survive a battle. They'll thank me eventually. _The man was still holding his chest, even though he had thick leather on, which would have stopped the blow. Thorek gave a distasteful glance before looking at the others.

'Alright. If you can't fight alone, how about together? Pick up your swords.' Thorek paced back to the right hand corner of the makeshift arena in the practice area of the King's camp and waiting, spinning his sword gracefully. If anything, the men looked even more scared now. Thorek gritted his teeth in frustration. 'Don't show your fear, else your opponent has already won. Alright?' He raised his blade, taking in the four men around him, shifting their feet. His blood started pumping, and a savage grin stretched across his face.

One of the men, the one he had just scolded, rushed forward, raising his blade high. Thorek caught the hilt in his hand, kicked out his attacker's leg and used his lack of balance to throw him into a second man who was trying to come up Thorek's side. They fell in a babble of shouts, but Thorek had no time to take any satisfaction in that victory. He glimpsed a flash of steel in his peripheral vision, the springtime sun glinting off the blade, and he moved to the right, kicking the flat of his opponent's sword, knocking it away and then sweeping his hand across the other man's head. The blunted steel gave a satisfying ring off the Nord's helmet and he crumpled. And then it was just one. Thorek let out a cool breath. _This was easy. _The fourth of then stayed back so Silver-Blood stepped forward, jerking his head to the side to avoid his wild blow, but then caught it on his gauntlet in bemused surprise when it swung back round. He shifted his arm, pulling the embedded sword back, throwing the man off balance, while lashing out with a kick that knocked the other Nord off his feet. He fell onto the dry mud, the wind punched out of him and Thorek drew his dagger, throwing it with pinpoint accuracy so it landed next to his head.

Wild eyed, the fourth man let out his breath in an explosion of air as he regarded the dagger, vibrating slightly next to his head. Thorek smiled, pleased with his easy victory, glancing around at them all.

The man who he had defeated last, the one who had put up a fight, raised himself. Thorek offered him a hand, which he took warily.

'That was a good blow. You almost got me,' Silver-Blood told him. The man just nodded, but before he could say anything, a messenger tapped Thorek on the shoulder. 'What?' he snapped, annoyed at having been interrupted.

'My Lord Housecarl. The King demands your presence at his tent. They are going to meet Thongvor Silver-Blood, the Jarl of Markarth-'

'Yes, I know who he is,' Thorek said brusquely. 'He's my fucking father after all.'

'Of course, my lord. I meant no offence.'

Silver-Blood waved his hand. 'Whatever.' He turned to his 'charges'. 'Alright, fight among each other. Don't restrain from killing each other; we'll all be better off without you. Apart from you, mate.' He clapped the fourth man's shoulder. 'You have potential.' He pushed his tourney sword into the messenger's hand and strode to his tent, which stood next to the King's. He quickly washed his face, ran some water through his hair and wiped the dust of his greaves and gauntlets. Annoyingly, the man who had nearly struck him had nicked the silver of the armour on his arm. _And this is my Housecarl armour, as well, _he sighed, pursing his lips irately. He shook his head and strapped on his real sword, attaching his another dagger to the belt. He heard the horns calling the men to get ready for battle. _Balgruuf's taking no precautions with this __**truce**__, is he?_ Thorek picked up his shield, just in case, and made his way into the next tent, the King's.

Balgruuf stood there with the Jarl's; Stormcloak, Stuhn, Winter and Merilis. Elisif Kingsblood's husband represented her in all matter martial, which was good. He was a capable warrior and battle leader. The Ravencrone's had sent Idgrod I's husband as well to oversee their men. Thorek frowned. He would have liked to talk to Idgrod the Younger again, just to explain why he did what he did. She deserved that much, for all her naivety.

The King's head snapped round at Thorek's approach. 'Ah, yes. Carl Silver-Blood. Good to see you so late.'

'I was training the men, as if my duty, Your Majesty,' he explained, inclining his head.

'Your duty is to your king,' Jarl Stormcloak remarked coldly, his piercing blue eyes like chips of ice. Thorek turned his own from the Dragonborn's intense stare.

_It's not your duty to suck the King's cock though, is it? _That wouldn't go down well, so he bit back his irritation and simply inclined his head, not trusting himself to speak. The Dragonborn of his childhood was not what he had expected; he had proven to be vastly unlikable and harsh. But what else would had any chance of killing Alduin? If there was any doubt about his valour, you only had to take a look at the hideous scars that drove a jagged path down his cheek. Thorek took his place at the King's side and fumed.

The King turned his attention from mocking his Housecarl and fixed his eyes on his Jarls. 'I want this to be clean. Peace is the priority,' he told them. 'We aren't looking for a war.'

'Then why rally the men?' Jarl Stuhn asked, dressed in mail with a dark blue surcoat displaying the emblem of his Clan. A deer. _Who the hell thought a deer was a good sigil? _Clan Stuhn's words added insult to injury; 'We are not prey.' Thorek struggled to keep his face straight. For any real Nord, the words went without saying. _But then, the Stuhn's have always been half Imperial. _

Balgruuf gave him a hard stare. 'Why do you think?' he asked Stuhn, almost unsure by the stupidity question. 'I don't actually expect any kind of truce, or peace.'

Falkreath flushed. 'Right, of course.'

The King continued as if nothing had happened. 'There is nothing left to say. Let's go.' He strode out and the others followed him. Thorek took up his place on his horse and stuck to the King as they wound their way out of the encampment and across the fields to the foot of the hill where Father had set up his camp. Trenches covered the side, and wooden spikes. If it did come down to a battle, it was going to be a bitch.

The King's squire raised his banner, gold with a horse's head emblazoned in the centre. Before long Silver-Blood raised the banner of his Clan, a sabre cat on a dark grey field, and figures of horses began to pick their way down the hill. Thorek spotted Father's Housecarl, named only Gauntlet. The younger Silver-Blood had laughed at the name in his childish invincibility, protected by his rank, but those of lesser stature who had laughed with him were rarely seen… _whole_ again. In truth, Thorek was seriously doubting why he had ever joked about the name. What madness had made him laugh at the huge man that sat astride his horse, his long blond hair streaming to his massive shoulders? His eyes were dim, but dark with cruelty. A greatsword hung from his back and Thorek knew from first hand experience that he could use it. It was highly possible that he was the strongest Nord in the whole of Skyrim. And he was eyeing Stormcloak with a vicious glare.

To his credit, the Dragonborn didn't flinch. He just rode his horse up to face him, his hand resting lightly on his sword. _It looks so weak compared to that monster's own blade. _Even Jarl Stormcloak looked small compared to Gauntlet, and he knew it. Windhelm licked his lips, breathing shallowly, as if his throat was caught. Thorek couldn't even describe how much he would have liked to see the thu'um rip off Gauntlet's head. After all, just because he couldn't hurt him didn't mean he had never done anything to a younger Thorek… _Just give me an excuse, you bastard. _Gauntlet's eyes flickered over him and he grinned bloodily. Silver-Blood flinched involuntarily and fumed at his weakness.

Father wasn't as imposing figure, obviously, but his presence still demanded attention. Dressed in silver armour, his head bare, he gazed over them slowly, before looking to the King. He didn't bow.

'Jarl Balgruuf,' he began. 'A welcome sight.'

'The only sight I'll saver is your head on a spike,' Balgruuf declared.

Father frowned. 'How eloquent. So, are we here to make peace?'

They could have fooled Thorek; everyone was armed, and holding their weapons tightly. Gauntlet was still eyeing Stormcloak, who looked like he was about to have a mental breakdown. His hands curled and uncurled at a furious rate. Sweat was beading his brow a little, but his eyes could have cut through even Gauntlet's thick skull.

'We are here to make peace,' Balgruuf agreed. 'But are you?'

Father nodded slowly. 'I'll do my part. But will _you_?' he shot back.

Wind-Shifter scowled angrily. He hated being played with. 'Of course I will.'

Thongvor Silver-Blood's eyes passed over the Jarls of Skyrim. 'And will your…' his eyes rested on Thorek, before flitting away; 'dogs, play nice as well.' The Housecarl felt like he had been punched in the gut.

'Hold it there, Silver-Blood. My army is larger than yours.'

'So is my hill,' he replied. 'You don't see me boasting about it, Balgruuf.'

'This isn't a grudge match,' Wind-Shifter growled.

'Obviously,' he said patronisingly. 'We're here to discuss Skyrim's future.' All humour left his voice, just like Thorek's own was wont to do, replaced by cold steel.

'Then let's do that,' Balgruuf said, with a bad attempt to regain control of the situation.

'The Thalmor is the biggest threat we face, yes?' Thongvor asked.

'Obviously,' Stormcloak's Housecarl said.

'I wasn't talking to the Housecarl's,' Thongvor snapped.

Stormcloak moved forward. 'Then speak plain, Silver-Blood. I'm tired of your silver words.'

'I seem to recall you using them to devastating effect in Whiterun. I thought you liked them.'

'This peace?' Areas Kingsblood interjected. 'How are we going to do it?'

Father looked at him and nodded. 'Yes, Balgruuf. How are we to do this?'

'You surrender. I'll pardon you.'

'And then we fight the Thalmor… with the Empire.' It wasn't a question. Father sounded resigned to this fact.

'What else would we do?' Balgruuf asked coldly.

'And alliance with the Redguards, and Morrowind. It's a simple concept, but it will serve us better than joining the Empire.' He looked at Stormcloak with a questioning stare. 'I would have expected you of all people to understand.'

The Dragonborn watched him, his face impassive. 'Why me?'

Father frowned. 'Your father led the greatest rebellion we ever had against the Talos Empire.'

Stormcloak leaned forward on his horse. 'Did you see which banner I fought under?' he demanded in a harsh tone.

'He was your father. Surely that means something.'

Thorek let out a laugh and Thongvor snapped round to face him with a look that stilled his laughter. The elder Silver-Blood turned back to the King. 'This is a farce, Balgruuf. It matters little who wins. Either way, Skyrim is dead. I won't fight for the Empire, but I will fight with it. I am willing to accept you as King, even pay a sum for breaking the peace, but we must fight the Thalmor soon.'

'Then join us,' Balgruuf told him.

'I'll join you, but not the Empire,' Father said resolutely.

'Surely there is some other way?' Stormcloak said, surprising everyone. He had never seemed the type who wanted the peace.

'With the Empire,' Father said mildly; 'there isn't, Dragonborn.'

'That's it then?' Balgruuf asked, disbelieving. He seemed to be in shock. _They had to have known that this would happen? _Thongvor Silver-Blood nodded, and turned his horse away. His entourage kicked into a gallop and raced up the hill, where horns began to sound. Thoughts flashed through his mind and Thorek jumped from his horse, racing to one of the guards, grabbing his bow.

'Arrow?' he commanded. The man gave him it and Silver-Blood sprinted for the foot of the slope, ignoring Balgruuf's protests. The wind was light, almost non-existent. It would be an easy shock. He drew back the arrow smoothly, lining it up with his father's neck, just visible as he rode up the hill. His finger slipped the arrow through, letting it release, preparing it for its deadly arc before a shape knocking him to the side. He stumbled and turned. Father was nearly at the top, out of range. Thorek released the arrow and it shot forward, whizzing through the air. It caught the side of Thongvor's neck, and red blood spilled from the cut. But it was only a flesh wound.

Silver-Blood threw down the bow in a fury, spinning to throw his withering glare onto the men surrounding him. 'Who the fuck hit me?' Thorek demanded.

Stormcloak's Housecarl rode forward, regarding him coolly. 'I did.'

'What were you thinking?' Thorek spat out through gritted teeth.

'I was thinking about our honour. It was a peace treaty. You know the thing that happens when you talk with the enemy?' he asked sarcastically.

Thorek regarded him wordless fury. 'The peace was broken.' He thrust his arm back in the direction of the hill. 'Hear those horns. That's your peace. I'd prefer to save the innocent lives even if it means damning our honour.' He strode to his horse and mounted wordlessly. 'You Majesty, I'll take command of the men's formation.' The King nodded weakly but Thorek was already gone, leaving them in the dust as Silver-Blood's army lined the hill, and the arrows began to fall.

**BATTLE! Pleas review if you liked that or enjoyed Thorek. I really do like writing his voice. **


	40. Dragonsong

**The thanks; to the kodaav, thanks for the Story Follower. To darthal, thanks for the Story Follower. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Good luck with your exams, and thanks for both reviews! The battle is right here, so I hope it's good. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Every one is trying to do the right thing, which is a great observation on your part. Thorek and Thongvor are definitely estranged. I'm really pleased that you are coming around to Thongvor's POV because his is perfectly reasonable. It's Ulfric's view in fact, which most people seem to prefer, so in many ways, he's actually the good guy. Thorek is not quite the man of honour you imagine, but he is definitely more bound by it, as well as Idgrod being a special circumstance with his personality and morals. Completely loyal? I guess he is, but I wouldn't be so certain with Thorek. Thongvor is rational; technically he's the good guy, and I am trying to get across the fact that he isn't evil at all. He just has a different, perfectly valid, point of view. So, I'm pleased that I'm kind of achieving this grey view with him. Thanks to everyone for your reviews and other stuff! **

**This chapter is pretty climatic, and was hard to write. I hope that you guys like it. **

**Jarl Jon Stormcloak **

**Silver-Blood pounded up the **hill as his army formed on the ridge. Jarl Jon Stormcloak watched him go before turning to look at Balgruuf with a sinking feeling. His fingers had begun to throb, but Jon refused to acknowledge what that meant. He let out a curse of frustration before spurring his key, _horse_, past the King as their own trumpets began to blare. He was dressed in his mail, and it weighed him down heavily. The wind did little to push back the sweat forming on his forehead. He let out a deep, ragged breath, shivering slightly, the panic rising. It was time.

His horse kicked up the dust as he rode towards the banners of Clan Stormcloak, black, with the roaring bear's head made up of sliver thread on his own personal standard. They snapped in the wind that roared high above, but on the ground Jon felt nothing. He picked out Alsfur easily, now rushing the men into line. Jon kicked his horse and rode over.

'Slowly, Alsfur. You must be calm before a grah, a battle. Get them formed up.' He felt like a hypocrite as he rode to Ulster, who was taking the left, leaving Jon the centre, commanded at the moment by Thane Blackmoore, the senior of his bannermen. 'Uncle. Bring your men round. I'm going to Jarl Winter!' For once, the other Stormcloak just nodded, calling out commands. He still wasn't sure why he had passed the honour to Ulster, but he trusted no one else but his blood, tainted as it might be in his uncle, save Ralof, who he wanted near him.

Jon rode around the front of his men, thrusting his arm into the su, _air,_ to get the men pumped up. Each one sent a spike of pain down his arm, as hot as Alduin's breath. Jarl Winter was doing as Jon had asked, leading his men round to support his own on the hill.

'Jarl Winter!' he called.

'Stormcloak. The men are ready.'

'Good. Bring them up, and prepare them. I'll give a speech.'

'Will the King not do that?' he asked, drawing up close to Jon as his men marched past.

Stormcloak nodded. 'With his own men.'

'Fair enough.' Winter snapped his reins and brought his horse around. 'For Skyrim,' he said, clasping his hand across his chest.

Jon echoed his action. 'For Tamriel.' They broke apart and he pulled his mount past the men who had lined up now. The front lines were drawing bows while the wooden sheets to protect them were being pulled forwards. Thane Shatter-Shield commanded this section, with his Theyns acting as his captains. That was good; they were organised. He glanced around. Everyone was. Jon let out another su'um, _breath_, catching the eye of one man in the crowd. He was watching Stormcloak very carefully, as if he expected him to start shouting. With an uncomfortable start, Jon realised every man here, even Silver-Blood, would expect him to use the thu'um. The thought left his throat even tighter.

Jon Stormcloak navigated his horse down the lines of men until he came to a high mound, where he had decided to fight the battle from. He was too old to actually take part in the physical battle, but mostly because he felt so weak. In addition, he knew that every man would target the Dragonborn, hoping to make a name for themselves. If he died, morale would shatter like bad stone, and he couldn't let that happen. Jon refused to acknowledge that it might be fear for his impending death.

Thane Tor Blackmoore sat on his horse, watching the field, as Jon approached. Ralof was also there, watching him keenly. 'My Jarl. The men are ready.'

Stormcloak nodded. 'Good. It's time. Once I'm done, sound the horn to attack and hope the King is ready as well.'

'As you command, my Jarl,' Blackmoore acknowledged.

Jon spurred his horse back down the line, coming out in front of the men. He turned his mount, and started walking it up and down his army. The men on both sides fell silent, waiting to see what he would do. Jon could just about pick out the King's voice, making his own speech. His hand clenched and unclenched. Jon took another deep breath.

'There are not many moments in a man's life where he gets to decide who he will be. This,' he paused for effect, 'this is one of them.' The men watched him, and Jon was painfully aware of its own meaning to himself. 'These moments are like winter winds, harsh and tiring, but ultimately, special. Beautiful in their own way,' he clenched his fist, held it to the men; 'but destroying. I don't want to make any promises, and I won't soothe your souls by telling you everything will be alright. But look there,' he pointed up the hill; 'there stands your winter winds, _your moment. _Reach out, and take it, it's yours! For SKYRIM!' The men let out a roar but his voice still cut through them, sullied as it was by hypocorism. 'Archers, show them oblivion.'

Jon rode forward, through their lines as the horns let out deafening cries. The men started advancing, holding up their shields, covered by the bows of their fellows. Jon reached the small mound and looked to Alsfur. He was rallying his men, pushing them forward, near the forest. They were to distract Silver-Blood, and break the line if possible. It would be a hard task, _but if anyone is capable of it, it will be my kul, _son_. _His throat was getting steadily tighter, which unnerved Jon. His scars rippled painfully, and a black dragon flashed through his head. Ralof turned to look at him.

'Are you alright, Jon?' he asked. Blackmoore was watching with a guarded look.

'Fine,' he snapped, trying to shove down the pain.

Ralof frowned, but he didn't say anything, which Jon was grateful for.

The battle was beginning in earnest. Alsfur was leading his men up the hill among heavy arrow fire. Jon saw one man fall in a spray of blood, but more pushed forward, screaming battle-cries. He looked for his son, and saw him in among the men, Kodaav flashing in the sun. Jon turned his attention back to his own section, which was advancing steadily up the hill. Jarl Winter was leading the right, trying to divert Silver-Blood's attention from both the centre and left attacks. So far, it seemed to be working, as best it could. The sound of steel sounded from the far side of the hill and Jon turned to see a messenger running up the hill.

The Dragonguard, a set of elite Blades, had arrived two days ago, and sworn their lives into his service. There were twenty of them here, another eighty in the battle, shoring up the weaker divisions. Jon had to admit that it was strange to have them protecting, as opposed to trying to kill, him like they had when Delphine was in command. _I wonder if she ever made it to oblivion. _He hoped so; she had been a lying bitch, and responsible for burning down his farm. Not that he really cared about that. Windhelm had been the greater prize, obviously. That thought dragged him back into remembering what he had said to Ulfric. Jon grimaced as he thought back to how he had actually compared the farm to the Jarldom; it had been a foolish thing to say, petulant almost. Not for the first time, he wondered why everyone was so… proud of him. He didn't really deserve it.

The Dragonguard held up the man, who were clad in the scale armour of the Blades. He looked nervously at Jon. 'A message, my Jarl, from Jarl Merilis.' Stormcloak gestured at the Blades and they stepped aside, so he could come forward. 'She says that she has assaulted Silver-Blood's left flank, and her men have made contact. The fighting is heavy, my Jarl.'

Jon nodded. 'Tell His Majesty,' he glanced at his own men, struggling up the hill, and near the top; 'that we will be making contact in a second. Give him my advice that we should opt for a strong push to catch Silver-Blood out. He can't defend from all sides.'

'I will, my Jarl.' He nodded and then sprinted off as if he was being chased by demons from oblivion. _He probably is, knowing the price of failure in this battle. _

Jarl Jon Stormcloak turned back to his men, watching as they finally reached the top of the hill. 'Cease arrows. The archers need to move up to support them in melee combat,' he told Blackmoore.

The Thane nodded. 'My Jarl, perhaps I might make a suggestion?'

'We don't have time,' Jon told him impatiently. _If we don't move quickly, we will lose this chance. _'Send a rider into the forest to see how Jarl Stuhn is doing.'

Blackmoore eyed him wearily, but nodded and dismounted, striding off to make the necessary arrangements.

'You should have listened to him, Jon,' Ralof said.

'We need to act quickly,' Jon replied shortly.

'Don't be impatient; that could lose us the battle.' He pointed up the hill. 'I'll bet that Silver-Blood isn't so quick to act.'

Jon shot him an irritated look. 'We wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't stopped Balgruuf's Housecarl from krii, from killing him.'

'It was our honour,' Ralof said stubbornly. 'We would have been cursed for all time by the Gods. Thorek Silver-Blood obviously has no concept of that.'

'A practical man then.' Jon winced inwardly. Now he was defending Carl Silver-Blood! He felt soiled, and uncomfortable. Jon was growing to hate this battle more by the second.

Soon the horns were sounding across the battlefield and Jon nodded with dark satisfaction at having got his way, watching his men move forward, before lingering on his cavalry. They were useless in this battle, but there was little Jon could do about that. Most had dismounted to fight up the hill, but a decent core of Carls were waiting idly, shouting encouragement to their fellows as they fought Silver-Blood's men.

Jon turned to regard the hill with a frown. The men hadn't broken the lines yet. With a spurt of panic, he looked for Alsfur's command. They were locked in battle with Silver-Blood's left flank. _That shouldn't have happened. _Even as Jon scanned the battlefield he noticed the way the enemy were holding the hill. Arrows tore into his own men-at-arms as they tried to struggle up the ditches and they were quickly losing morale.

Another spike of pain flashed through his kopraan, _body_, up the deep scar that had opened his side all those years ago. He let out a cry, and Ralof turned to him, concerned. He waved him away, his eyes locked on the battle. Clearly something had to be done. Stormcloak looked over the battle with a desperate gaze. All his commanders were tied up. That left only him. With a sinking feeling, Jon knew exactly what he had to do if they wanted to win.

'Fuck!' he cursed. 'Helm,' he barked to his squire, who passed it over quickly. Jon pulled up his hood of chainmail and tied his helm to his head, leaving the visor open. 'Dragonguard, with me. Ralof, call the cavalry.' His Housecarl hardly had time to protest at the suddenness of his action before Jon was gone with a sharp snap of the reins. He pushed his horse forward, down the mound. The mounted Carls saw him and raised their weapons, bellowing out war cries. Jon called them over, taking his shield and strapping it to his arm. It was the same one he had used in Whiterun eleven years ago. Now he was glad for his skyforge steel armour.

Jon Stormcloak pushed his horse up the hill. Suddenly, he was truly in the battle. With a pervading sense of guilt he noticed all the bodies around him. It was almost like travelling through a river of steel; and blood. The sos, _blood,_ especially. He tore his eyes away, instead focusing on the men shifting above him, trying to get a foothold.

He drew his sword, driving his horse into the press. First it was one man, then two, then five. His army turned, and started bellowing out a calling, fighting harder now.

'DRAGONBORN! DRAGONBORN!' The fever was all around him and his men started fighting back with savage determination, their steel flashing viciously. Jon pushed further forward, coming up to the front line. The Silver-Blood men saw Jon in his shimmering armour and started aiming for him, their grins contorting their faces.

Stormcloak pulled down his visor grimly and sent his zahkrii, _sword_, down into the face of a man who was trying to get a grip on his horse. It exploded in a burst of red, sending up a jolt through his arm, mixed with more stabbing pain. The blood lust was upon Jon now; he had forgotten how satisfying it was to kill your enemies. Suddenly, he wanted Silver-Blood. He wanted to see his eyes as he thrust his sword through that black heart.

Jon hacked around him as the Dragonguard fought their way to his side, spilling blood as they cut around them, pushing back the line. 'Silver-Blood!' Stormcloak bellowed, moving forward further. His men were gaining the hill. Balgruuf's were being pushed back, but Jon hardly had time to spare a thought for them because now Silver-Blood's Housecarl had arrived. He swung his sword was furious abandon, cutting heads off at random, killing a few of his own fucking men. Jon drew back, a little shocked, before a scowl deepened the lines on his face. He raised his sword, about to rally the men, but then he noticed it. A line of archers, aiming for him. With a flash of deep panic Jon tried to pull his horse back, thrusting up his spaan, _shield._ And then it happened.

The pain rocketed up his body with the force of Alduin, ripping through his nerves. He let out a scream but couldn't tell which pain was which. The attack, or the arrows that slammed into his body. Most of them couldn't pierce the chainmail, but a few managed to drive into his flesh and he was knocked from his horse.

Jon's vision flickered, but the men were all around him. Stormcloak started crawling through the churned up mud as a cry went up from the men for their lost leader. Through the gaps, he saw another army entered from the forest, wearing the blue of Falkreath… and the Silver of Markarth. His elation was wiped away by blinding anger and pain. 'Traitor!' Jon roared, struggling to his feet. Another attack ripped through his knee, making him fall again. Stormcloak spat out blood as the arrows dug in deeper. His throat was so tight, it was cutting off his breathing.

'Fucker,' he growled. And then his eyes flickered to where they were heading. _Alsfur. _He drew himself up with a cry and started staggering forward, oblivious to the battle around him. His sword was gone, but he didn't care as he pushed through the men. His blood was warm as it soaked into the leather underneath his mail. Suddenly, a rider was there, reaching down a hand; Ralof.

'Get up!' He helped Jon onto a separate key, _horse_, before turning. 'We need to go. The battle is lost. We need to run.' He pulled Stormcloak's mount round, and they started galloping for the reyth_, tree_, line as men started running down the hill, suddenly broken. Horns blared out, and blades flashed into the backs of the fleeing King's Men, spilling dark red into the soil, turning it into a muddy, slippery mess. _Traitorous carnage!_

Jon's horse stumbled as it raced over the field. Arrows sunk into the soil all around him, and the two Nords burst through a crowd of fleeing men who had been engaged by Falkreath soldiers. Jon suppressed his vicious anger as he watched his men being butchered around him, before a spike of pain sent his thoughts reeling. Another surge burst through his body and he let out a scream, losing all sense of direction. Ralof's horse was forced away by the crowd of men, but Jon's crashed through, all his thoughts centred on his own survival now as Alduin's rage sent scalding heat through his blood.

He was nearing the forest as the darkness descended, covering him completely, and he fell.

'**Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin.' **

Jon raised himself from the ground, his body aching.His vision was blurry, but he managed to focus on the great dov, _dragon_.

'Where am I? Sovngarde?'

Paarthurnax shook his head. 'Nay, look around.'

Jon did, taking in the trees, the darkness, the sun glinting through the leaves, mocking him. He had returned to the forest of memories. As he stared into the pine trees, he saw Ulfric come forward, dressed for battle. Mother appeared around another tree, and even Ysold entered, clad in the pure white dress she had used for their wedding. _She looked so beautiful. _The Ysold of his mind was more so, head held high like a goddess. Ulfric carried Kodaav at his side, but it was sheathed as he settled against a tree, his arms crossed.

'Why am I here?' Jon asked, struggling to his feet, leaving the crisp smell of the leaves behind.

'Because you wanted to be here,' Paarthurnax said simply.

Jon turned, catching a glimpse of Alsfur as a child, frolicking among the leaves. Ulfgar was standing watching his brother with a smile, as old as he was now. Stormcloak turned, seeing Esbern working at a desk. Even Balgruuf's bastard son was there, drawing an oil cloth across a sword. He fixed Jon with a piercing stare and Stormcloak looked away.

'So, what happens now?' he asked, looking up at Paarthurnax, before turning to Ysold, to Ulfric. 'What now?'

'Anything you want, my love,' Ysold said quietly.

'Anything…' Jon repeated softly. 'I don't have to die, do I?' He looked at Paarthurnax.

'Nii. You may enter Sovngarde now, should hin hind, _you wish_.' He turned his head, and the trees to Jon's right broke open, forming an archway. White, dazzling light spilled out. The Dragonborn could just glimpse the Valley of Heroes, lush and green, and his heart clenched.

'Now?' He was scared, but he wanted it. More than he could possibly describe. But that would mean leaving Ysold, and Alsfur…

'Alsfur!' Jon cried. 'Where is he?'

'Safe, my son,' Mother told him. 'For now.'

A sinking feeling dashed Jon's calm. 'For now?'

'That is the catch,' Paarthurnax said, his head moving forward. 'You have three choices.'

'One, you can leave for Sovngarde,' Alea said, moving forward next to Jon. 'And leave behind the pain.' She left the rest unspoken. _And my honour. _

'Second, you can stay here, with me,' Ysold said. 'Run, Jon, and you will live until the end of your natural days.' _In pain, with Alduin and guilt dogging my every step. _

'Or you can fight,' Ulfric boomed. He took Jon's shoulder. 'Through that way,' another archway formed to his left, black and ragged; 'is Alsfur. You will die to defend him, but in the greatest pain felt by any hero throughout time.'

'My brother will not allow you to redeem yourself,' Paarthurnax said quietly. 'He will throw all his strength against you, Dovahkiin.'

'Don't call me that,' Jon murmured. 'If I'm going to die, I want to die as myself, for once.'

'You'll fight then,' Ulfric asked.

'No,' Jon said. 'I could run. I could run for you,' he said, locking eyes with Ysold. 'But what I want to know is, would you forgive me?' She met his eyes, and shook her head. Jon turned to face Alea. 'And you, Mother. The other heroes, what would they say?' She couldn't meet his eyes. Lastly, Jon looked at Paarthurnax. 'What do you think? You'll have me go to Sovngarde?'

'I'd have you run, and never look back. With you at its head, Skyrim could win the war with the Thalmor. Thousands would live, in a free world.'

'But Alsfur would die,' Jon finished for him.

'A vahzah and necessary sacrifice-'

'Why me! Why Alsfur?' he pleaded. 'Why can't we both live?'

'Shor will not allow it,' Ulfric said gently.

Jon turned to him, breathing heavily. 'You want me to fight. But would you have run? You've run before?'

Ulfric's face took on a pained look. 'For Skyrim, my son...' He nodded, but then shook his head, as if he couldn't go on.

'You wouldn't fight?' Jon confirmed, uncertain. He grabbed his wife's hands, not caring if she was real or not. 'Ysold, I love you. You'd love me, always, even if I came back without Alsfur?' he asked, his eyes laced with pain.

She nodded. 'Always.'

'Alduin would finally leave me, if I entered Sovngarde now though. I wouldn't live, but there would be no more pain. No more.'

'No more,' she echoed softly.

Jon stared around at them all. He saw his defeat of Alduin through the trees, but had it really been a victory. _No, it had just been the beginning of the end. _He stared at an image of him and Ysold, her walking up the wedding isle in the common room. She had been pregnant with Alsfur then, but never more beautiful. He buried his head in his hands, his mind racked with fear. 'How long until Alsfur dies?'

'Not long,' Ulfric said, drawing Kodaav and slamming it into the ground.

'You must be like the wind,' Paarthurnax told him.

'I will see you soon,' Jon promised, stepping towards the twisted archway. As he got closer, he noticed the burning silver veins running through it.

**Jon Stormcloak woke in a **fiery inferno of pain. He screamed, as images of Alduin flashed through his mind. He raised himself, or tried to, but fell. He let a different kind of pain surge through his finger. A slicing one.

Jon opened his eyes. There was Kodaav, shining with a white light, just as Ulfric had left it. He had just cut his finger on it. The blood sparkled. Another attack raced through him, blasting apart his nerves, tearing them. Jon whimpered, but didn't fall. He grasped Kodaav's hilt with a shaking hand. The leather grip quickly soaked with his blood. It was running out of the pores in his hand, spilling down the blade. He let out a cry of deep distress at the sight, but drew up his sword in a rush of steel and mud, mixed with scarlet. It felt light in his bloody hand, and Jon took a step forward. It sent an explosion of pain through his leg and he screamed again, trying to drown the agony out in the sound of his own voice. But no relief came. His throat was tightening and Jon remembered his deadline. Alsfur didn't have long.

Jon thrust himself forward with an iron will. Alduin hit back against his consciousness, but Stormcloak managed to fend him off. He took another step which racked his body with a convulsion and slumped d0wn, exhausted. His breathes came out in explosive bursts that sent icy fire through his blood. _It's impossible. I can't do it. It would be easier to die. Pass into Sovngarde. So much easier… _

A sound caught his ear; the rustle of leaves. Three men in the colours of Clan Silver-Blood stood with their weapons drawn, watching him carefully. Their expressions were greedy. One of them stepped forward.

'I don't believe it. The fucking Dragonborn. He'll get a hell of a ransom.'

'Don't touch him,' another said nervously. 'You don't know what he's capable of. He could hurt us.' Jon grimaced through his pain; at least he still commanded some respect, or fear. It didn't matter now.

'Hurt us?' the first man scoffed. 'Look at him. This will be easy.' He knelt into Jon's field of vision, plain faced, but thirsty for glory. 'That's a nice sword. I think it's mine now. What do you think?'

'Take it,' Jon coughed out blood. He looked up, his anger slowly rising, while a grin spread across his face. 'Go on.'

The man frowned, but reached for it anyway. Jon breathed deeply, feeling the tightness in his throat. _It's been so long. _'Fus,' he murmured.

The fire blew off the man's hand as he reached for Kodaav in a spray of charred flesh. Jon stood quickly, his weakness forgotten. One of the men ran at him and Stormcloak parried the blow off Kodaav, spinning and catching his leg, opening it in a burst of blood. The last man fell back and Jon barked another word of draconic. His neck snapped with a bittersweet crack and Stormcloak sagged, exhausted. The man who he had burst the hand off whimpered. Jon crumpled to his knees.

'What a pair we make, you and I?' Stormcloak said absently. 'The defeated and the broken. Isn't that right, Alduin?' He could almost feel the dragon next to him.

A sharp jolt of pain answered him, screaming through his body, splitting the bones. But Jon didn't even feel it. He heard the horn though. _Alsfur. _He struggled to his feet as pain rocked his body, but didn't fall. He grabbed a tree, his fingers driving into the bark, breathing heavily. It sounded again, and he was running.

The leaves sprang up on his touch as he sprinted down a forested hill. The trees passed him with bone breaking force, but he didn't stop. Jon's breath came out ragged. Sweat, along with blood, poured down his face but he kept moving.

The slope ended in a drop of a few feet. Jon jumped, landing heavily as more pain burnt his legs. He fell, and rolled, pulling himself up with a grimace. Another man-at-arms entered from behind a tree, dressed in Falkreath blue. Jon dodged his clumsy blow, whipping out his arm, throwing the man into a tree with a visible crack. The ground was uneven, and he stumbled as another sword slammed into a fallen stone wall on his right. With a growl Jon slammed Kodaav right into his attacker's chest, and pulled it out viciously. Chunks of flesh followed, mixed with broken mail.

Only now did Jon realise he had arrows stuck in his chest. One was driving in painfully; right above his heart. Without slowing Jon tore it from his chest, ripping his ruined clothes. The skyforge had been broken by missiles, and sword blows, but he didn't remember any of it. _It doesn't matter now. _Only now did Jon realise often he said that. But it didn't matter; the past was the past, and he was going to be damned if he let it catch up again.

His legs pounded across the crumbled stone; the ruins of a monastery in the middle of a forest. The horn sounded again, closer. Jon whispered more draconic. The trees were lit up by a fiery stalk that raced through them, charring the bark. Jon followed it with desperate determination. To fail now would be impossible to bear.

A wall appeared in front of him, once a guard to protect the monastery. Without slowing Jon barked out the draconic. 'Fus, doh!' The wall crumpled. Stormcloak threw himself against it, shattering it in an explosion of dust, blood and stone. A shard cut his cheek, but Jon was already well versed in the taste of his own blood. He wiped the scarlet fluid off his face and it all landed with a decent sized splat for Alduin to mourn after he was finished here. Jon couldn't tell how much he had lost already. Tears ran from his eyes as more pain ripped through his skin.

Suddenly the fiery trail burst in a huge fireball. Jon couldn't stop himself; he flew through it, rolling uncontrollably across the ground. He kept hold of Kodaav, and found himself in a clearing. Pain rocketed up his body, and he squeezed his eyes shut, grinding his teeth down with such force he cracked one, sending another jolt of agony through his face. That drew out fresh tears. Finally, he opened his eyes blearily, pushed himself off a dead body with a pang of pain and drew himself up. And there was Alsfur.

He looked bloody, and beaten. His armour was badly damaged and he sat slumped in the corner, breathing shallowly. A broken sword lay by his side, but not Kodaav. Jon had Kodaav. It glimmered through the shit, mud and blood, fuelling on his faltering strength. His arms were so painful. Jon's eyes had been covered in a shade of red, light and uncontained, blocking out most of his vision. Tears blurred the red haze. With a start of surprise Jon recognised Ulster Stormcloak, slumped by a tree. At his feet lay several men, and the shocking reality struck home. _Could he have been protecting Alsfur?_ Jon wasn't surprised by the last person he recognised. He was standing over Alsfur; Silver-Blood's Housecarl, Gauntlet.

The huge Nord turned, his eyes taking on a sadistic light when he noticed Jon. 'Dragonborn. Jarl Windhelm, right?' His eyes travelled up and down Stormcloak, taking in the blood and smashed armour, but he must have seen something he didn't like in his eyes, because he flinched. Jon couldn't smile; there was too much pain for that.

'Leave my son.'

Gauntlet regained his defiance. 'Or what?'

That was a good question; Jon hardly had the strength to lift his sword, and his throat was burning. He couldn't shout; he could barely breath. With a glance he noticed the two men standing at Gauntlet's side.

His silence must have emboldened the Housecarl. He nodded at his men. 'I don't care what blood runs in your veins. I think it'll look just fine in the soil.'

That made Jon furious. It was a battlefield, but after everything he had done! But he wouldn't beg; he was past that now. 'You touch my son,' he croaked, 'and… I'll rip you apart with my own hands.'

Gauntlet grinned, and nicked Alsfur's cheek with his huge sword. 'Go on then.'

But Jon was already moving. He stumbled forward, the thu'um exploding from his mouth. A blast of deep blue slammed into one of the men, and a snap echoed throughout the clearing. Without hesitation, the man-at-arms lashed out, cutting off his fellow's hand in wild madness before falling to the ground, thrashing violently.

Gauntlet looked shocked, but fixed his eyes on Jon. He readied his sword. With desperate speed Stormcloak flipped round Kodaav, knocking aside the Housecarl's blade and going for his chest. Gauntlet threw him away, hard, into a tree. Jon's face hit the wood and another tooth broke, and then more pain rammed up his legs. He fell, but rolled clumsily as Gauntlet's sword cut into the tree. Without a thought, Jon kicked out the Housecarl's leg and locked his arms around the Housecarl's throat. They struggled, but Stormcloak was too weak. Normally, it would have been easy, but now…

Another shot of fire forced his arms apart and Gauntlet launched him over his back. Jon hit the dirt heavily, winded, but he managed to kick the Housecarl back when he came at him again. They fell back in the dirt. Jon clawed for Kodaav, but Gauntlet got there first, drawing up the blade. His hands looked loose though on the grip, and unsure. He swung it anyway as Jon struggled to his feet, and the blade hit him with the force of a dragon, breaking a rib. _But not cutting. There's no edge. _Stormcloak staggered back as Alsfur let out a cry, putting a hand to his chest. There was old blood, but no cut. Nothing. Gauntlet looked just as shocked, and threw the weapon aside, reaching for his own sword. Jon launched off his foot, ignoring the pain that hunched his body, grasping Kodaav in his hand clumsily.

Gauntlet had managed to retrieve his own sword and swung it wildly. Jon ducked, knocked it up with Kodaav and thrust forward, but the Housecarl dodged. Stormcloak parried the riposte, and then rushed forward with savage fury. Gauntlet was hard pressed to defend himself, but he was a capable fighter. With a roar he locked their hilts, before throwing Jon back. Stormcloak stumbled and regained his balance just in time to step aside and avoid the vicious downward blow that Gauntlet aimed at his head.

More pain ripped Kodaav from Jon's finger and he let out a cry, sweat pouring down his brow, soaking his hair. He fell back, and Gauntlet moved forward, leading with his sword. Alduin flashed across Jon's vision again, and his anger burst from his mind like the thu'um. Stormcloak wasn't aiming for Gauntlet when he leapt forward, bellowing in black rage. The sword caught him in his stomach and Jon was thrown like a ragdoll into one of the trees that lined the clearing.

Jon's shoulder broke and he let out a cry. He screamed when the sword point slammed right into his chest, smashing the bone. A soft pain, a different one from the fire that was already engulfing him spread throughout his body. The pain of death. The steel was drawn from his body slowly, It scraped past his bones, drawing out a moan from his punished, ruin of a figure. Jon let out short bursts of breath, his head light and dizzy. Black wings gathered at the edge of his vision. The voice cut through the daze.

'That was easy,' Gauntlet said. Alsfur was screaming in the background, as the Housecarl rested on his knee, eyeing Jon with an arrogant smile. 'I don't know how you defeated Alduin.'

It was Jon's turn to smile. 'That was someone else,' he said with a bark of laughter. Blood hit Gauntlet's face. His features contorted monstrously.

'I want you to beg me to end your life, or I'll make your last moments hell,' he roared.

'Too late,' Jon said weakly.

He pulled out a dagger and punched it into Stormcloak's heart. 'Beg,' he growled. 'Beg me for your son's life.'

Jon's head slumped. Death was so close, but he still had business here. The darkness fell back a little. 'Fuck you.' With a last burst of strength the Dragonborn rammed his fist up into Gauntlet's throat. It cracked his chin, and splinters of bone slammed into Jon's hand. Without a pause he drew the dagger from his heart with an icy shot of pain and punched it right into Gauntlet's face. He let out a scream but Jon was spent. He let go of the dagger, pushed the Housecarl back. He fell dead at Jon's feet and Stormcloak rested his head against the tree. He could have sworn Ysold was there, sitting next to him, her head rested on his chest. _Or what's left of it. _That made him chuckle, and he coughed blood. And then Ulster was peering down at him.

'Jon?'

'Uncle. Good to see you. I don't have much time, so send Alsfur along.'

'Yes, my Jarl.' He turned, but Jon held him weakly.

'I was wrong, uncle, about you.' He released him without another thought for what he had said. Death made you succinct.

The blackness was lancing up his body, taking over his arms and legs. It would reach his head soon, and his throat. The pain was dulling. Alsfur appeared in his vision. Ysold was gone.

'Father,' he said softly, his eyes filling with tears. 'I'm so sorry.'

That surprised Jon. 'What for?'

'For this.'

Stormcloak shook his head slightly. He didn't have enough strength for anything more. 'At least you didn't kill me.'

Alsfur looked at him uncomprehendingly, so Jon quickly pressed on. He was about to tell his son about how he had lived up the prophecy, but that would just make him feel responsible, so he severed that thought swiftly. 'You will be Jarl after my death. Take Kodaav and my responsibilities. You'll do a better job than I ever did.' He choked up more blood. It ran down his chin.

'Father,' Alsfur protested.

'No,' Jon snapped. 'I don't want to hear it. You were born for this, even if no one knew it. Make me proud.' He sucked in a long breath. 'Tell, Mother… tell Ysold that I did what I thought was best for us. It couldn't have been… there wasn't another way.' He let out a long breath, grasping his son's arm. 'I'm proud of you, Alsfur. More than you could imagine.' And he was; his son had become everything he had hoped he would be, and more. He only had a few moments left. The blackness was approaching steadily. 'The Blood is Powerful.' The words of Clan Stormcloak. 'So is yours.' And, the darkness washed over him like a cloud, comforting, and secure.

**The air was clear, and **the grass glimmered below him as Jon stumbled down the path that led to the Valley of Heroes. His wounds would be healed soon, of that he had no doubt. As he climbed the last hill, the sound of horns rang out throughout the world, lighting up the sky. Streams rustled down tumbling hills and soft mountains. _I'll climb one of those with Ysold one day, _he promised himself. But the Hall of Valour dominated all, huge and majestic. As Jon stepped forward, he noticed two figures, waiting for him. Father stood, dressed in white, nodding with approval, Mother by his side. She was smiling a sad smile, as if she hadn't wanted to see him here, but was happy anyway.

Ulfric stepped forward. 'Welcome back.'

**If there had been any other way to do this, I would have, but I needed this to happen. And that is the end of my protagonist; guess I'll have to find a new one. That sucks. Please review, because I want to here everyone's thoughts on this and I hope I did Jon justice. **


	41. A Son of Winter

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for LOADS of reviews! Seriously, I like being review spammed. To the content matter, Ysold is going to be crushed. Jon could have said 'a dragon, a dragon for my jarldom.' Ulster doesn't have to be evil; he had genuinely good motives. Silver-Blood did indeed win the battle, and Sid is a real prick. I am so pleased and proud that everyone liked Jon so much and felt so close to him. That was my goal from the start, so that was amazing. Yeah, a lore guide sounds like a great idea. I'd be happy to put together some quite character bios, so I might do that some time. Feel free to give me ideas of what you would like to see in there. However, it would be quite easy for people to just copy; at least if they use my ideas they have to read the story first, so that's the only thing I'm a bit cautious of. I chose the title very carefully, so its good that you liked it. Alsfur is partly Dovahkiin, so yes, the world might not be screwed. There is a prophecy. I do lie about what I say to throw you guys off. Sorry. To Delphine hater, thanks for the reviews! No, I'm sorry, but I will not resurrect Jon. I have big plans for the Stormcloaks, but I'm not going to tell you otherwise that would ruin it. They will all have different reactions though. Jon **_**was**_** my protagonist. That title has been passed on to another character now, hopefully someone who will grow to equal him. I have a scene planned for Dragonblood, where you will see some Ulfric and Alea action, but that's a Jon dream, that will be fun to write. I might be hard to find, but if you can I guess… To Steak and a Spud, thanks for the Story Favourite and Favourite! To GigaPlankton, thanks for the Story Follower! To timeywimeyspaceywacey, thanks for the Story Favourite and Favourite. Funny name. To Frenchie884, thanks for the review! Thanks, I'm glad you liked him and appreciated his death. To Guest, thanks for the review! Well, Alsfur is looking for vengeance. Oh, and fair point. It does depend on where the arrow hits, and in addition, Jon was already dying, so it didn't matter. Plus, the Dragonborn are stronger than normal men. Thanks to guido2345, thanks for following the Forum. **

**Thanks to everyone for the amazing reviewing! We're up and past 400 reviews! So, thank you Jon. It does suck that he's dead, but I've mourned him this past week. And Blade Agnet99, sorry about the time it took to get this out, but it wasn't a review gaining tactic; I just took a long time writing. As for Dragonblood, I've nearly finished the latest chapter, but I've actually been through writers block regarding that. **

**The idea of addictive magic is Delphine hater's idea. I added the… other bits. So, thank you Delphine hater. The next chapter is Casta for the battle against the Dominion itself. **

**Assur Winter**

**The fire flickered over his **palm, lighting up the room with an orange glow. Assur Winter studied it, his brow creasing. His eyes, the irises almost white, reflected the glow, giving them a dangerous look. Assur could feel the coldness creeping up his body, starting from his hand, and working its way down his body. _It's almost as if it's taking my warmth, _he deduced. With a rush of pride he realised that that was exactly what the magic was doing! He smiled, clicking his other finger. A burst of frost appeared there, and he began to feel warmer. With a grin, Assur increased the heat of the flame, and they started counteracting each other. He shook his head in wonder; the college would be very excited by these findings.

'Assur!'

Winter jerked back, both flame and icy snow dissolving in a rush of air. Birna stood by the door, watching him with a bemused expression. She entered with two drinks and sat on the bed. 'No matter how many times I see that, I can't get over it.'

'Don't worry,' Assur assured her. 'I have complete control over it.'

Birna nodded, looking a little scared, and touched her belly. Winter had only found out that she was pregnant a month ago. It had been a shock when she first came to the gates of the college to tell him, but in many ways it had been fortunate. By that time, Assur had been put on the fast track to become a Scholar. Several mages had tried to resist the promotion, but his skill with magic far suppressed their own, and he read voraciously. In addition, his mind just soaked it all in, and Assur had found he could remember things from several months ago with perfect clarity. It had only taken a week before the others had yielded to the inevitable and appointed the youngest Scholar in the history of the college. Assur had been delighted for several reasons; one, he was far above the classes, though he saw Onmund and Brelyna as often as he could, and secondly. he was allowed to leave the college as he would. Assur was no longer bound to it in any way, though naturally any research he did in the premises was smiled upon. So, it seemed that Assur was ready to return to Winterhold as Father's heir, if he would have him. Winter had been determined to break free of his father's oppression now that he knew magic, and had matured. When, and if, Father returned from war, things were going to change. Starting with Birna…

No doubt, Father would be opposed to allowing a peasant girl to become Lady Winterhold but Assur didn't care. As soon as word of the baby, and its father, had come out, the town had been delighted. The college had found out obviously, but he was a Scholar now; what he did with his time was his own business.

Now, Assur's mind had been taken over by his child. He was determined to not to father a bastard, so he had already arranged for Birna and himself to get married. He had wanted to wait for Father, but it seemed that time wouldn't allow it. It was all that Birna had ever wanted, so she had been more than pleased to agree. As a result, Assur had started spending more of his time in her house, and returned there every night. He had avoided the longhouse as well as he could, but he knew that today he was going to have to go there to make clear his intentions, and possibly even take up his father's responsibilities. It didn't fill Assur with any kind of pleasure, only dread. But he had Birna by his side, and that was good enough.

Assur took Birna's hand and exited his thoughts. She looked at him with concern but he squeezed her hand. 'It will be okay.' The Steward, Malur Seloth, would likely be pleased to see him again. It would end his anxiety over the succession of the Jarl. If he wasn't, well, Assur wouldn't bode on that. 'Do you want to come with me?' he asked Birna.

'No, I'll stay here. I don't want to get stuck in the middle of some shouting match.'

'You know I'd never do that. It's going to be very reasonable.'

She rolled her eyes. 'I'll see you in twenty minutes then.'

Assur stood and stretched out. 'Actually, I was going to go up the college and continue my experiments for a day. I also need to report in these findings to the Archmage.'

Birna nodded, but pursed her lips, clearly annoyed. 'Be safe then.'

He kissed her and reached for his cloak, white and trimmed with grey. If he was going to plead for his right to be Thegn, he would want to do it in the colours of Winterhold. 'There's nothing that could harm me now.'

'Don't be too cocky,' he scolded him.

Assur smiled, and left. _It's true though; there is little else that could actually hurt me now. I'm was too powerful._

The spring had only lessened the snows a little, but it was a clear today. The sun shone out, but gave off little heat, like some kind of illusion. The houses also looked smaller, and less magical without snow covering the thin straw of their roofs. Assur shrugged and trudged on, his cloak lifting up lightly behind him as the icy wind shivered across its length. Winter considered creating some fire to warm him, but the urge was too… strange, so Assur snapped his fingers to his side and shook his head. Not for the first time, he had to remind himself that magic was dangerous, and no matter what he boasted to others, was not subservient to his will.

The longhouse looked the same as it ever had, and the streets as empty as they ever were. Assur considered going into the inn to see Dagur, but decided against it; he needed to complete his tasks quickly, if he was to see Birna again. Besides, he knew that he was just trying to put off meeting Malur. It was going to be a very awkward conversation; after all, it isn't everyday a Thegn returns to his birthright after blatantly disregarding it a several months before, Assur thought anxiously. He had to try and hide his emotions though; he knew they needed him, the heir to Winterhold, just as much as he needed his position back now.

There was no dramatic effect to it. Assur opened the door and entered to find Malur on Father's throne, scribbling on some parchment. A table had been set up in front of him, and it was piled with various writing instruments. He was a Dark Elf, and not used to work. Normally he did as little as possible, but now it seemed as if he was finally pulling his weight, and no doubt hating every moment of it. Assur took in the lines and dark circles around his eyes, before deciding exactly how he was going to play this interaction.

Assur Winter walked forward into the hall, nodding as he looked around. He pulled up a chair from the side as Malur watched him intently and sat opposite the Dark Elf.

'How's the work?'

'Dreadful!' he exploded without preamble. 'I hate it. You know, if you were here, young man, this would all be a lot easier.'

'I'm here now,' Assur pointed out.

'I can see that.' Malur put aside his work, and leaned forward. 'What do you want?'

'To return as Father's heir.' He held up a finger to stop Malur from interrupting. 'A position I never surrendered. Last I heard, he sent men to get me back. Who's to say I never returned.' Assur chuckled. 'You never sent a letter to Father, did you?' Malur looked uncomfortable and Winter's smile dissolved. 'But you never did any work while I was here!' he asked aghast.

'I'm sorry, Assur, truly,' the Dark Elf stammered. 'It doesn't mean you can't return though. I'll take you,' he said quickly, pushing the papers forward slightly.

Winter frowned. 'Father won't appreciate the slight. I killed two of his men.'

'An unfortunate,' he eyed Assur's hands, 'and… strange accident. Listen,' he moved forward until he was sitting on the edge of the throne. 'Your father is too drunk to register anything half the time. No offence,' he added when Assur shot him a scowl. 'He values his pride, but equally he needs an heir. I know that no one will disapprove. All men go off to do stuff when they're young. It's like your… you know, thing.'

'I wouldn't call leaving to study magic, my Father's most hated thing in the whole of Skyrim, a little thing I did when I was young,' Assur said doubtfully, completely abandoning his tough act.

Malur shrugged. 'I wouldn't be so sure. You know there was a time when the Winter's used to always go up and study at the college. It was a tradition; all the Thegn's did it.'

That surprised Assur; he had never heard about that. 'I didn't know that.'

'You wouldn't. When the Great Collapse destroyed Winterhold, the Jarl ended the practice, and destroyed every book he could find that said so. Hmm, yes, well, we Dunmer know differently. So, you see it's not as bad as you think.'

Assur was still stunned. Presumably that meant that the Winter's once had control of magic, as he did. _So, why had Father never shown any skill in it? Why does he hate it so much?'_

Malur broke him from his musing. 'Now, what's this talk I've heard about you and Birna?'

Assur blushed, and shifted uncomfortably. 'It's true. She is carrying my child.'

'Your father will be thrilled,' Malur said sarcastically. He sat back, before looking at Assur plaintively. 'Why do you make my life difficult?'

Assur held up a hand. 'See, I'm actually making your life easier. Imagine, no more work. You can return to whatever you did before I left.'

'Which was exactly nothing,' Malur said proudly.

Assur stood, pushing off the table. 'I should really get rid of you for laziness.'

The Dark Elf hummed in agreement and stood as he left. Just as Assur was about to exit the door, Malur called out. 'You were never disinherited, by the way. This succession thing should fall through smoothly.'

_Then why does it sound like you are trying to reassure yourself of this fact. _Assur just nodded and strode out into the air. There was a light snow falling now, but Assur had no hood so he brushed off the flakes and made his way to the college.

It was midday when he arrived through the gates, and headed to the Hall of Attainment, where his new quarters were situated, being a Scholar, and grabbed his research. From there he trudged to the Library, wishing that he was sitting with Birna inside her warm house. The college wasn't well heated.

Assur sat down with his work and played with his quill, now reluctant to do anything. Eventually, he just scribbled down some notes on his findings and folded it up to give to the Archmage. He wouldn't be pleased with the quality but at the moment Winter didn't give a damn. He strode out into the Hall of Elements to watch the recruits at work, needing something to amuse himself. Assur took a certain amount of pride in his power, but he was convinced that it was just the magic influencing his behaviour, which unnerved him, but did little to alleviate his prideful behaviour.

The apprentices were working in corners, trying to get plants to grow. Assur frowned; he had never tried that before. _I left too soon. _Tolfdir was instructing them on how to do it properly, but Winter ignored him. He channelled all his feelings of superiority and eyed the flower, urging it to grow. Slowly, it began to spout and the apprentices turned his way with murmurs of surprise. Tolfdir gave him a look.

'Any reason for being here, Scholar Assur?'

Winter bit back his embarrassment. 'No reason,' he replied before sweeping out. _You're not an apprentice anymore. You have no more place there than at… Winterhold. _Was that true? Did he truly belong as Thegn or maybe Jarl one day? From the way Malur told it, he had more place there than Father. Assur had never considered his popularity, but from the way the Steward was ready to take him back and the friends he had made in the town indicated otherwise. In addition, he controlled magic; something seemingly every Winter of the past had to be able to do.

Suddenly, Assur was yanked from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. He whirled around, to see Brelyna looking up at him with a caring glint in her eyes.

'What do you want?' Assur asked, irritated. His embarrassment was still a lump in his throat.

She looked affronted. He must have been ruder than he imagined. 'You look sad,' Brelyna hesitated and Assur nodded expectantly, crossing his arms. 'You look lost too, Assur. I've noticed it recently. Onmund was just talking about it yesterday-'

'Of course Onmund would know everything about what I'm going through,' Assur snapped before he could stop himself. 'Why would he know anything.'

Brelyna frowned. 'What do you mean by _that_?'

'Onmund's no mindreader, is he?' Assur asked, rhetorically, trying to move away, but Brelyna stilled him, her face taunt.

'You may be a Scholar now, Assur, but that doesn't mean you're better than anyone.'

_Yes it does, _he thought, before he could stop himself. Assur bit his lip, trying to pull back the sudden rush of prideful thoughts, but it was true. He settled for a compromise. 'The Archmage is higher than you, and a better magician as a result.'

'Me?' she noted. 'What about you, Assur?' Brelyna put her hands on her hips, and gave him a defiant stare.

Winter frowned, his eyes flinty. 'Well, maybe now, but one day-'

A disgusted look consumed her features, before it turned sad. 'Who's that speaking, Assur. You or the magic?'

That knocked Winter out of his mindset, bringing him back into the present with perfect clarity. 'Brelyna, what kind of question is that?' he asked quietly, scared of the answer.

'You know what? I don't even want to now the answer now. Tell me when Assur returns.' And then she strode off, leaving him dazed and upset, staring after her. He shoved his hands into his pockets and strode off.

The disturbing thoughts consumed him as Assur exited the college, just as a fierce storm was coming in. It whipped him back and forth, the snow rising under his feet to submerge them. Such blizzards were common in Winterhold, even in goddamn spring, but even so, this was so fierce it drove through Assur, wrenching him from his thoughts.

He pulled over his hood and stared at the sky angrily, his hands clenching. The snow fell thick and fast, but as he looked up at it, a thought pushed itself forward, driven by his recent obsession with his magical powers. _Why don't I just get rid of the storm? _Instantly, the rational parts of his mind came forward. _Wait, what the hell are you thinking? Conjuring a small flame is dangerous enough, but getting rid of an entire storm! Unless… _Assur started grinning, a peculiar idea forming. _If I can counterbalance both forces; the heat and cold, then why not? _He could already tell it would be difficult, if not impossible, and possibly lethal, but the magic was urging him on, daring him to beat the impossible. To humiliate it. _I can do it. _

Assur started tapping into the thoughts he would need; arrogance, confidence, and his reserve of magicka. It swirled within him, in all places, so he had to draw it together into a cohesive force. When the energy was lapping at his finger tips and humming through his body, Assur sent it out in an explosive burst, aiming his right hand at the sky, while his left pointed to the snowy ground.

A huge gout of flame flew into the air and exploded in the storm. Each flake disappeared in a fiery puff, and this effect rippled throughout the entire blizzard. It was beautiful; the sky was lit by orange light that seeped over everything, giving the houses and snow a gorgeous golden glow. But Assur hardly had time to appreciate it; the backlash hit him hard, igniting his nerves with liquid fire, even as ice poured through his body. His energy was yanked from his heart in a second and he slumped to the ground, too weak to move. He let out shallow breathes, his mind black, but then the energy started leaking back, loosening his lips, and expanding the air in his lungs with a pleasant full-ness. Assur let it out in a long breath, and pushed himself to his feet, marvelling at his sudden well-being. He felt fine, better than fine. Assur let out a laugh, and then started chuckling, rolling in the snow in his elation.

Assur Winter pulled himself up, still dazed with pride, and completely baffled by how quickly he had recovered. He took one dismissive look at the clear sky, and continued on to Birna's house.

**Trust me when I say that Assur is the one exception to a powerful mage. It's going to get pretty exciting in his viewpoint. Please review, and thanks for the support everyone! **


	42. Dominance

**Casta again! Wonder what he's been up to? You're about to find out. **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased that you like the Assur chapters, so I'm going to increase his parts. Assur is developing negatively, which is pretty problematic, considering his power. The Dunmer is just a Steward; he could never, ever, become Jarl, and Assur is popular. I have been writing Dragonblood as well and life for a bastard does suck! There are secrets, definitely. HereLies inspires all of us. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! It was good advice. As you can see, I've added in the corrupting bit to make it all a bit more evil. Alsfur will be in the next chapter, and I'm sorry, Jon can't reunite with Ysold now. That's the point; it's the hardest part of his death. That said, if she goes to Sovngarde, then they will be together again. I'm really pleased you like how Assur's mind was written. That's okay for biology. I did pretty well the tests I got back, which was cool. Ulster is a loyal man; he has a chip on his shoulder, but he's a good man. This story is going onwards! Miraak might pop up. To Someone345, thanks for the Story Favourite and Story Followers for a lot of my stuff! To TheShadowOfTheWickerMan, thanks for the Favourite, Story Favourite, Follower and Story Follower for loads of my stuff! Thanks to everyone! **

**This is a big battle. I am trying to pick up the pace, but its hard. Blade Agent99, I actually tanked this because you wanted more in that extra review, so thanks for the reviews! Here it is. **

**General Casta Allectus**

**General Casta Victorus Gaius Allectus** watched the battlefield with a distrustful glare. It was a sea of green grass, with the occasional boulder spread out over the land. The wind was light, almost non-existent, and the sun shined brightly, sending a warm light throughout the world. Casta breathed it in; a truly beautiful day for a walk, but not for a battle. The heat and lack of wind would see the men stifled in their armour. He had no idea if the Elves felt it, but it was best to assume that weren't being affected.

In the coming months before the battle as it was to be now, Casta had tried to outmanoeuvre the Elves at every turn. They had entered Cyrodiil two months ago, during which the Legions had been assembled and marched from the provinces, out to face the greatest threat to the Empire since the Oblivion Crisis. Casta had furiously battled with them for strategic dominance in the battlefield, placing himself on hills and rivers, all the while blocking the Dominion from reaching the Imperial City. Now they stood facing each other across this grassy field, not the place of Casta's choice in any regard. But the General had to take a moment to reflect on what he had done so far; to block them for so long had been a feat of extraordinary military leadership, especially as he had to resupply his men to ensure they were ready for battle at any time, and he was proud. He would not have them face the Dominion unprepared. Gods knew it was going to be hard enough to fight them as it was.

General Allectus cast another eye over the field. There were no strategic advantages, no tricks; the Dominion was obviously ready for battle on any terrain. Their army structure had the same arrogance laced through it; at their front were Elves in long robes, with only bronze, scaled plates on their shoulders and the same metal greaves on their legs. Behind them stood the bulk of the forces, Elves in elegant bronze armour. Among them were warriors in gilded plate, obviously the captains. Archers stood behind their ranks with huge bows at their sides, all still as a grave;_ which is what they'll be if everything goes right today. _Casta spared a thought for his daughter, and wife, wondering what they were doing now, and whether they were praying for his safe return. Somehow, the answer wasn't too reassuring.

He felt a presence at his side, and turned to see Legate Caro's square face by his side. 'Are you ready to sound the horn for the advance, sir?'

Casta surveyed the field carefully, before nodding. 'Yes, I'm ready. I'll take the vanguard. I want you at the head of the men, understand?'

'Yes, sir,' Caro nodded nervously. 'Why, if I may ask?'

Allectus worked his jaw before answering. 'The men need inspiration, to know their officers are prepared to risk their lives to win victory. Besides,' he put a hand on Caro's shoulder; 'you are a good leader and fighter. I expect you will be promoted soon, should we win here.'

'How likely is that, sir?' Caro asked. 'Victory, I mean. Will it be possible?'

Casta shook his head. 'I don't know.' The Legate was about to turn away, but Allectus caught him. 'The men don't need to know that though. There, on that battlefield, we are facing nothing more than a bandit horde, alright?'

'Of course, sir. I see only tall bandits, with expensive masters.'

Casta smiled and clasped his arm. 'Strength and honour.'

Caro repeated the words solemnly and strode away. The General followed him to where the officers were set up, looking over the field and issuing orders. One of them turned on Casta's approach.

'General. The men are in position.'

'I know. The horn should be sounding soon,' Allectus agreed. The sound burst through the land a second later. Below, he could fell the nervous energy of the legionnaires as they began the advance. Their centurions could be heard bellowing orders to dress the line. Across the field, the Elves were also preparing and beginning to move forward. Casta watched them intently, straining his eyes to pick out every detail. The Dominion forces looked undeniably arrogant in their confidence. By comparison, the Legions had the smell of fear covering them; Casta nervously hoped that it would disappear once they spilt some elven blood.

The legionnaires continued forward, and the archers took the lead, drawing themselves up in a line. The order was sounded and they raised their bows, releasing the arrows in a glorious arc of death. They fell into the elven ranks, but the losses were minimal. _Because of the damn armour! _Casta thought angrily. He beckoned one of his legates to him, recognising the futile nature of using arrows.

'Order the infantry forward. Do it in _formation_,' he stressed the word. The man ran off to sound the appropriate horn calls, and Casta watched with eager anticipation as the legionnaires marched forward, locking their shields. There was a short space of time for breathing, as the archers fell back behind them, before the two ranks smashed into each other with a bloody crunch, and they started wrestling for control. The Dominion clearly had the advantage; the elves were taller than the legionnaires, though obviously not much stronger, and their weapons seemed unnaturally sharp. They cut through shields, and laid open the bone with every strike they connected. Surprisingly, the legionnaires were holding their own, fighting like savages. Their centurions bellowed out encouragement, lashing out wildly. And the line never broke, and that was what was clearly keeping them alive. Do what they might, the elves couldn't break through.

Casta nodded, pleased, before noticing that the elves in the robes were gone. Worry pricked up at the side of his mind, but he thrust it back. The Legion archers had drawn swords and joined the melee. Their blades flashed in the sunlight as they struggled against each other, pushing and jostling for dominance. Screams echoed up, and Casta felt strangely detached as he surveyed the field. The Dominion ranks behind the main line were drawing back, and regrouping. Casta instantly recognised it as an attempt to flank the main body of the legionnaires.

'Call together the rear guard and the cavalry. Call back the archers, and use them to destroy any attempts to flank us. Order the crossbowmen forward,' Casta ordered quickly, but with exact calm. The Legates hurried to obey. He wondered how Caro was doing in the crushing melee that dominated the centre of a growing bloodbath. It didn't look good from where he was standing. In the time he had observed the battlefield, the rear guard had moved forward, a huge force of battle-scarred legionnaires, ready for his command. Already he could see the Dominion forces pulling back, and moving round to try and flank the Legions. It was a slow process, but Casta had to admire just how well they were organised; the elves moved like a well oiled machine. Casta quickly moved to his legates and started explaining what he had seen, before assigning them to different parts of his rear guard. Casta's 'rear-guard' was more a reserve force, divided into three sections, each built up of a thousand men, plus two hundred horse. The General glanced back at the battle to see the Legion and Dominion still fighting fiercely, some thirty thousand men struggling for dominance, a literal battle of good and evil from Casta's point of view.

'Grab my shield and helm. Also, bring in my horse.' His squire ran off, returning with the desired equipment in short order. Casta tied the straps of the helmet, gilded like the rest of his armour, and tied on the shield securely before mounting his horse. He leaned down to his squire. 'Stay here and watch the Legions in work. One day, you'll see the battlefield,' he finished, not unkindly, before drawing together a party of the top Legates and spurring his horse after the men.

They were advancing quickly, moving towards the Dominion forces. 'Leave a division behind to watch out for those robed elves,' he told one of his legates quickly. He raced off on his horse and Casta turned his attention to the Dominion forces. They were advancing quickly, coming round the Legion's flank. It any of the men in the immediate battle saw it, they didn't say anything. They were too busy trying to hold back a tide of elves. The Dominion trap was closing, and Casta slowed down his rear guard; he wanted to be sure that they were stuck before he flanked them.

It was all coming together now; the men were fighting bravely, and giving no ground to the elves. Even so, Casta was dismayed by the amount of bodies he saw at the Legion's feet, mostly his own men. It brought a twinge of regret to his mind, but he pushed it aside; it had no place on the battlefield such as this.

The elves had closed in now, and flanked the Legions in a short burst of speed. The two forces collided, with the Legions taking the brunt of the damage. Casta smiled despite his new losses; this would be sweet.

'Forward now! Destroy those elves, for a free Tamriel!' The men took up his cry and then they were running. His cavalry had joined them, and Casta spurred his horse to their front as they picked up speed, racing across the field. A horn sounded and the elves turned to see a wall of steel descending on them. The legionnaires let out a cry of victory and then the cavalry slamming into the Dominion ranks, tearing them apart. Blood was in the air, and Casta let out a war cry as he hacked around him with his sword. Here, the eleven height was at a serious disadvantage. They were so tall, it was easy to cut them apart, and Casta decapitated one with a sharp swing of his sword. Blood covered his arms, but it was a glorious feeling. Arrows began to whizz overhead, deterring any flanking motion from the Dominion and from the sounds of the screams, the crossbows were having far more luck hurting the elves.

Casta glanced around. They had almost completely destroyed the Dominion flanking force, and Allectus let a burst of relief and happiness run through him, before turning his sword to get the rear forces to pull back. They were going to flank the elves now. The cavalry just started pulling back, recognising the order as it rippled through their ranks before it happened. Screams; screams of men. Casta turned his horse, looking around wildly. The noise came from the back and a chill swept through his bones. _They can't have flanked us. It's impossible. _But it wasn't. The Dominion forces were sweeping through their ranks, crushing the horsemen as they tried to fight back. In a panic, Casta reached for his horn, intending to rally the men, disbelief clutching at his mind when a rain of ice fell down into his men. Suddenly it was utter chaos. The General reached for his horn again, but a bolt of ice ripped through his hand, breaking the bone. He let out a scream, and turned his horse in a circle, watching through blurred vision as his men were destroyed. The Legion was fleeing, men running in all directions, trying to escape the carnage and Casta spurred on his horse, ice raining down like a storm, fear becoming his overwhelming thought. There was no time to think about anything; he was already making for an open between the two forces of men, and then he was galloping across Cyrodillic fields, as the Dominion devoured the Legion.

**Please review! It'll make Casta's horse run faster, which would be great! You know, to live. So, yeah. **


	43. The Passing

**Firstly, I'm going to try and get these chapters out much quicker now. My coursework is done, and I have revision, but things are good. So, I'll try and get these out much quicker! **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks again for the great reviews! I saw your 'hurry up' one again, and that spurred me on. Anyway, Casta couldn't use mages because they are in short supply, wouldn't want to become soldiers, and most importantly are extremely weak compared to elven mages. No, Casta isn't developing too much because like you said, he's a grown man. He's done his developing, which is a change from other characters. The Emperor is definitely not the ruler they need right now. He is not suited to long terms decisions, or wars. I agree, things are difficult under him. He probably should have attacked first… Alsfur is next. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I can't tell you what happens. Well, maybe. Certainly, Ysold and Jon reunite at some point, but not in life, sadly, as Ysold can't have the dragon dreams Jon has. That is reserved to… Stormcloak blood. (Like blood-blood, which sadly Ysold doesn't have.) Selina won't get a chapter for a while, but she is important. Ralof hooking up with Alea the Huntress? Well, he has a secret. Ask HereLies if you want to know. I'm not really part of it (stupid Ralof betrayed me.) To Ph4n2oM, thanks for Favourite and Following me! Anyway, thanks to everyone that posted reviews and the like! I think I've mentioned everyone but if not, you have my apologies. **

**We're past Season Unending's review count now! (I think) Nice one guys! CHEERS! **

**Jarl Alsfur Stormcloak **

**Father's death was like a** dull ache. It filled his heart with a darkness that Jarl Alsfur Stormcloak couldn't explain, but when he tried to confront it, the feeling disappeared, leaving his heart with only a painful emptiness. It was almost as if he had inherited all his father's burdens. Alsfur knew he hadn't even begun to take on the amount Father struggled with, but he felt like he was carrying as much anyway.

The devastating defeat near Falkreath had almost destroyed the King's Men. Jarl Silver-Blood had given them leave to take their dead, and had personally ensured that Father's body was carried from the field. Even the King had bent his back to ensure that the Dragonborn was respected. And that had hurt even more, seeing everyone unite to honour a man they had killed. Alsfur had of course carried father, despite his wounds, but his eyes had been filled with dark fire as Silver-Blood held his father's weight. He had wanted to lash out, to scream, to cut them all to pieces for being such hypocrites, but he wasn't allowed to, not now he was Jarl. What was more, Father had been a figure of legend; it was every Nord's right to honour him as they would, and Silver-Blood had proved himself capable of the highest type of honour, which had only made the rage of Father's death even harder to maintain. Alsfur felt like he owed it to him, to be angry, and to want revenge, but he couldn't be sure. Even his feelings had been ripped from his control by Father's death, replaced by the deep, empty blackness that pitifully tried to replace him.

The war had ceased to be for the duration of Father's funeral. The Jarl's Men had declined to attend, not that the King had asked them to, but it had been their right. The funeral was going to take place today, out in the middle of Whiterun. Alsfur had wanted it to happen in Windhelm, but the King had successfully argued that it was here Father became Dragonborn, and a Stormcloak. He owed his life to the city, he said, but had stopped at that when he had seen Alsfur's look.

Alsfur had been made Jarl almost instantaneously. None of the others had any objection, and Stormcloak sensed that the King saw it as some small compensation for Father's death. But nothing would ever fix that. It didn't matter what happened; no king could change what had happened, nor could they escape the blame that Alsfur held in his heart. His induction into Jarlhood had been bad; the son could almost have sworn he could see Father leaning against one of the pillars, watching him with those cool blue eyes of his. Worse than that was that Alsfur had no idea if he would have been proud or not. It was this most of all that consumed him.

It had been painfully obvious as he was raised to Jarl of Windhelm; was Father proud? He had said as much in his last breath, but Alsfur's childhood recollections said otherwise. He had never expressed dissatisfaction, but he had never truly made Alsfur feel like he had lived up to his expectations. Every gesture, even when he passed down Kodaav, had been stiff, as if it was a formality. It was now that Alsfur had desperately wanted Mother to comfort him, to reassure him beyond doubt, but she wasn't here. Ulfgar had always been good as a solid point, despite his youth, but he too was at Windhelm. Alsfur was alone, and lost.

The letter had been the worst thing. His hand had shook as he wrote, and tears smudged the ink. When Mother saw that… Alsfur couldn't even imagine her pain, not did he want to. He was sure it would destroy him, but Mother had always been strong. _With Father. But without him here… _It didn't bear thinking about. Ulfgar would take this best, being the youngest, but even he would shed some tears before the end. Alsfur had wanted his family to come to the funeral, but Mother had refused. It had been Steward Brunwulf's writing though, which had condemned him to it alone; Mother was apparently too torn up to travel, as Alsfur had known she would be.

Ralof was little help either. He wandered around in a daze, looking shocked. He had barely said a word since Father's death. The same could be said of everyone he saw. The world seemed to have lost its colour, or a sense of its being. Alsfur had never realised just how much Father had touched everyone, and nor had he, Stormcloak suspected, but he had. But now he was gone, and it seemed like a pillar of Skyrim had vanished, leaving the whole structure a little less even, but much weaker.

As was custom, Ralof had been sent from his service. If their master died under their protection from unnatural causes, a Housecarl was sent from the service of the heir. In addition, they had to contend with the oath. All Housecarl's swore it; they promised to hunt down the killers of their master, to the death if need be. This oath was utterly sacred; to break it was to no longer be a Nord. Not only would the individual's honour be totally disgraced, but by tradition, they were rejected by society and shunned. Alsfur knew it wasn't Ralof's fault, and had desperately wanted to return him to his position, but it was against the ancient laws of Skyrim. Until Ralof found, and ended Father's killers, his life was forfeit. He was given the rest of his life to complete this task; if he failed, he had no hope of ever entering Sovngarde. Alsfur knew Father had destroyed his killers, save one; Thongvor Silver-Blood. Stormcloak hadn't even attempted to reason with Ralof; the other Nord had agreed to see him safely to Windhelm, but then he was leaving to kill Silver-Blood. Stormcloak knew how it would end, which left him with no choice but to take up the King's cause and battle Silver-Blood to the death, or else it would undeniably be Ralof's. It was what Father would have expected, and that motivated Alsfur on more than he could explain.

'Alsfur.' He looked up from the desk he was sitting at, located within the apartments the King had lent him. It was Ulster, his great-uncle. 'We're ready.'

'Well, I'm not,' he snapped angrily, annoyed to be torn from his musing, before instantly regretting it. 'I'm sorry. It's… it's been hard.'

Ulster moved into the room, nodding. 'I know. When I heard about my brother's death, at the hand of your Father, my nephew,' he added pointedly; 'I was similarly affected. Jon was more to you than Ulfric ever was to me, and you're handling it far better than I ever could.'

Alsfur looked up, hopeful. 'Really?' The other Stormcloak nodded. 'I'm the Jarl now. I have to be strong,' he said, half to himself.

'You do,' Ulster agreed. 'But you're also human. Don't be ashamed.'

Alsfur nodded, suddenly thinking of Tavia, and how he wanted her here. When he had bargained for her as a ward with Thane Blackmoore, he had been driven by an unexplainable feeling, and one that had only become more prominent as he had rode with her to Windhelm. Alsfur was still confused when it came to her, but somehow he felt like he needed her. It was something he couldn't explain.

Stormcloak struggled to contain these feelings, instead nodding and getting up, pulling his cloak around him. 'Right. Let's go then.' He straightened his black doublet, but hesitated when reaching for Kodaav. _Better to leave it. A sword has no place at a funeral. _

Alsfur Stormcloak led the way from his apartments and through the winding corridors of Dragonsreach, out into the main hall of the palace. The whole area was crowded with nobles, all in black, standing and talking in muted tones while glancing around nervously to ensure no one tried to push past them, otherwise they would be further from the funeral pyre. Everyone had some claim as to why they should be closer, such as talking to the Dragonborn once. That was a popular one, Stormcloak reflected angrily, scowling; he had no time for the tiresome politics of the capital, or the fickle nature of the Nords surrounding him.

Up on the dias, the King stood, his face the picture of grief. And it was genuine. Around him, the other Jarls, save Black-Briar of Riften, Silver-Blood, and of course Falkreath. Alsfur had been nurturing a hatred for Siddgeir Stuhn since Father's death. _If he hadn't betrayed us, Father would be alive, and sitting in victory._ It had been a clever tactic on Silver-Blood's part, and he had pulled it off perfectly. That didn't ease the feelings of resentment though. Not one bit.

The King's Housecarl was there too, Silver-Blood's son. Alsfur's stare was bloody; he was as bad his father, but there was nothing he could do. Not after the battle anyway. The King had chosen well in his Housecarl it seemed. Thorek Silver-Blood had been personally responsible for saving the King during the retreat, from several enemies at once. His courage and swordsmanship had been praised before, but after the battle he had commanded a much higher level of respect among the court.

The King clasped Alsfur's arm as he came forward, and leaned in close. 'You truly have my condolences, Alsfur. I am so sorry about what happened.'

'You should be,' Stormcloak replied tightly. 'It was your war which took away my father.'

He nodded, but fixed him with a hard stare. 'You're a Jarl now. Grief is understandable. Bitterness is childish. Decide who you want to be.' The King broke the embrace, and as sharp as his words were, Alsfur had to concede that there were true. He couldn't hold this grudge, else it would destroy him. He turned his attention to the other Jarls, who offered their own official apologies for any part they played in his death. Looking around at them, Alsfur noted how not one of them was injured from battle. But then, Father had been a different man entirely.

As he was watching them carefully, he noticed a figure standing by their backs. It was Ralof.

The former Housecarl looked bad. Dark circles were prominent around his eyes, and his blond hair was in disarray. He looked as if he has lost some weight as well, but worst of all was the look that consumed his face. No mirth remained, only the steel of a man who wanted revenge. Fire lurked beneath the surface, bubbling darkly into a morbid rage. It was a shocking sight, but Alsfur approached him anyway, steeling himself for the coming conversation.

'How are you, Ralof?' He winched as he heard himself back. It was an asinine question.

'It's not your concern, Alsfur,' he replied sharply.

Stormcloak frowned. 'I just want to make sure you're okay.'

'I'm fine then,' Ralof snapped. 'Sorry, my Jarl, but I have somewhere to be.' He pushed past Alsfur without another word, leaving him shocked. He wanted to say something, but comfort had never been his strong suit, and he just watched as he strode away, the pain mounting up again. Alsfur had never felt so alone.

Stormcloak turned back to the other high lords of Skyrim, upset. Among his primary concerns were of course his family, and how they were dealing with Father's death, but now at the back of his mind was another problem. _Who am I supposed to find to be my new Housecarl? _There were no immediate choices, but he couldn't help but think about Ulster, standing silently beside him. _If you can't trust your own blood, then what else is there? _

Alsfur musing was broken by the sound of drums. Everyone in the room turned to see Jon Stormcloak set on a polished wooden board, being carried by his Dragonguard down the steps into the main hall. The banners of Clan Stormcloak hung from the sides, and the sea of faces parted as they moved through the huge hall. Alsfur fell in behind the procession, his long sable cloak trailing out behind him. The King followed while the Jarls formed a miniature triangular shape at his back.

The other lords of Skyrim also followed, silent as Father. They emerged onto the bridge that connected Dragonsreach to Whiterun, and then marched on down the steps to a raised platform, created for this occasion. The High Priest of Skyrim waited there, his acolytes spread around him. Sectioned behind guards in their finest armour were the people. Thousands of them, hundreds of thousands. They spilled out of Dragonsreach, but Alsfur regarded them with little emotion as he followed Father's body up onto the wooden structure. A pyre had been set up on top of the platform, and the wooden board was set carefully on that. The High Priest began the rites, but he spent most of his time telling of Father's deeds, and how he was to be inducted into the Nordic pantheon, which sent out ripples throughout the crowd. And then they hailed Dovahkiin, God of Determination and Duty, and it was time.

As his son, and the only close family member present, Alsfur went first, even before the King. He crossed the short distance from his spot by the side of the massive wooden structure while everyone else waited below, the lords cramming the steps of that led up to Dragonsreach, the people filling the rest of the city, all waiting which bated breath as Alsfur looked down on his father.

He had been cleaned, and preserved with simple herbs so that he didn't rot so quickly. His body was covered in silver chainmail, with silky black velvet underneath that. His face looked calm, as everyone's did in death, and his hair had been brushed back. He clasped a sword to his chest, and a gorgeous cloak hung over the pyre, so that it spilled onto the wooden structure. Looking down at him, Alsfur didn't know what to think. Most of all, he kept thinking of Mother, wishing she was here. She should have been the first to see this; Alsfur felt unworthy, and almost unwanted. Father's face was as blank as ever, with no expression to console him, or reassure him. His last words reverberated throughout Alsfur's head; 'The Blood is Powerful.' They had been for his son, urging him on, telling him that he was just as capable as the father of great deeds. Or, at least, that was what Alsfur interpreted it as. Even so, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing. Should he try to live up to him, or make a new destiny? It seemed as if Father had never been more cryptic. He traced one of his scars with his eyes before returning to his face as a whole.

Alsfur Stormcloak could feel tears building up, so he quickly strode from the funeral pyre and made his way up to Dragonsreach, brushing off any attempts to console him. Most of the nobles just parted to let him go, and he managed to escape the glaring sun and reach sanctuary inside Dragonsreach. He felt a surge of bitterness and anger towards the weather; for Father's death, there should be wind and rain, a great storm to herald his passing, but as usual things deliberately didn't go his way. The Gods were mocking him.

Alsfur rushed to his apartments, and sat. The tears came shortly afterwards, and he sat there sobbing, absorbed by his grief. It was a while before he noticed the presence at the door. Alsfur quickly wiped his eyes, before he recognised the figure as Tavia.

He was dumbstruck, and too deep in mourning to understand why she was here. He shook his head questioningly, and she moved forward gently. 'I came here with Thane Blackmoore. Lady Stormcloak gave us, Erik and myself,' she added quickly; 'leave to join Lady Blackmoore on the journey here.'

Alsfur didn't really care though, and sat again, slumping down against his desk. She stood quietly, inching forward. Thoughts swirled around his head, and without Mother here, he needed someone to confide in. He needed a way to let it all out, the uncertainty and fear of not living up to his father's expectations. He needed to release it.

'It was my fault,' he said suddenly. Tavia moved to him, but Alsfur ignored her. 'It was. If I hadn't been there, Father would never have come, and he would have lived.' He looked up at her, frowning, afraid he was right.

Tavia knelt next to him. 'No, Alsfur,' she said gently, but steel laced her tone. 'Erik told me what happened. He said it wasn't your fault. You did what you had to; putting your men before yourself. It was Jarl Siddgeir and Jarl Thongvor who are to blame. Not you. Never you.'

'Then I did lead him there,' Alsfur confirmed sharply.

Tavia bit her lip, unsure of how to proceed. 'Jarl Stormcloak wanted you to continue. Do you really think he would have wanted to live, knowing it was his inaction that let you die? He wanted you to be great, not to be held back by his death, or,' Tavia held up a finger; 'his accomplishments.'

'How do you know?' Alsfur challenged, the pain of Father's death resolving into hot anger.

Tavia remained calm though, and secure. 'Because I know you, Alsfur. I know the man Jarl Stormcloak was, and whatever father he may have been, you know he was better than that. Let him go, Alsfur. It's what he wanted.'

Stormcloak nodded, and she embraced him. He started crying again into her arms, and she stroked his hair as the dusk drew closer.

**Jon's death sucks even more. Next is more conspiracy from Idgrod and gang. Things will heat up there. **


	44. Polar Opposites

**Hello everyone. See, I got this one out quicker! **

**The thanks: To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Ulster might be a good guy, so who knows… I'm really pleased you liked how the emotions were portrayed and the writing, so thanks. Jon made a lot of mistakes, more than I care to acknowledge, and I've got to admit, I never thought of him as 'consumed by madness', but he was. Almost. If you ask me, I believe he died a far better man than even when he was at his prime, because it takes an extraordinary person to struggle through pure agony, fear, fighting off a dragon god, with battle wounds to save someone (even if that person is your son.) So, respectfully, Jon was a broken man, but I feel that he truly died himself (hence the lack of draconic), and better than he ever was. In any case, thanks for review and compliments on the writing. To Delphine hater, whoa! That's cool; I'm glad you thought it was the best, but I wasn't expecting that. I'm really pleased you like the writing and the characters reactions. Thanks. Ralof does have to kill Jon's killers. It's in the oath and yes, Tavia is Alsfur's love interest. Erik can't be his Housecarl because he had responsibilities as Tor's heir. I'm glad you like Jon as a pillar of Skyrim, and Jon was the dragon leader (mostly, and they do owe him.) Er… as for Ralof's secret, well, it's about his sexuality. You know, his preferences. Not sure if I'm making it canon, but HL made a convincing case (so blame her, not me!) **

**Thanks to everyone for the reviews and everything! **

**By the way, HL helped edit the last chapter which was amazing. So, thank you HL! **

**Idgrod the Younger **

**The day was remarkably bright, **but Idgrod Ravencrone II didn't share any of its optimism. She had been pulled away from the scene by Djurien, who had been wise enough to realise that they couldn't take on the men they had spied on past the tree. Idgrod had recovered her composure quickly though, for Joric's sack, and led them from the forest, back into town. They hadn't spoken a word, but that didn't mean the matter had been pushed from their minds. The thought of someone assassinating Mother sent cold fear down her spine, but Idgrod held it at bay, Joric's words of earlier still fresh in her mind. It had been her brother who had spoken for them all when he said they needed to warn Mother. And so that was where they were now, in Highmoon Hall, standing in front of her. Djurien had waited outside, but Joric had accompanied Idgrod inside, for which she was grateful. Mother always seemed to treat her with greater respect and attentiveness around others, as if she was afraid of what others might think. Idgrod thrust that thought aside though; Mother had never cared what others thought of her, unlike her daughter.

Mother sent Carl Gorm from the room, on some duty no doubt, and then turned her eyes onto them, watching them kindly. 'What do you want?'

Idgrod glanced at her brother, still surprised by how tall he was standing next to her, and back at Mother, drawing courage from his nod. 'There's no easy way to say this, but you have to trust me when I tell you. Understand?' Mother nodded, looking vaguely disconcerted, and leant forward. 'Okay.' Idgrod took a deep breath. 'Joric and I suspect there is a plot to kill you.'

Mother frowned, and leant back. She looked down, and then eyed them again. 'A plot?' They both nodded, and she stood, pacing along the hall before turning to them sharply. 'Someone wants me dead?'

Idgrod was actually surprised by how seriously she was taking this, and quickly moved on to keep satisfying Mother to the plot's potential danger. 'Several, in fact. They seem to be working under one man, but I don't know who he is. Only that they referred to him as "The King".'

Mother nodded, as if this all made sense. 'Obviously not Balgruuf, I presume. He has enough troubles on his hands, what after all that has happened.'

That piqued Idgrod's interest, drawing her attention away from the matter at hand. 'Wait, what things?'

Joric squeezed her arm. 'Not now. We have to make her realise how serious this is.'

Idgrod nodded, pushing away the unwelcome curiosity, but Mother had been distracted, and direct action was now gone. She had never been one to act decisively unless she needed to. Mother had always preferred to let things play out, and she sat back now, deep in contemplation. Idgrod and Joric waited, watching her as she mused silently. Suddenly, she snapped up.

'I'll send Gorm to investigate.'

Idgrod's heart sank; that meant she was going to ignore it. 'Mother,' she pleaded.

'That's final, my daughter.' Joric began to speak up as well, but she shot him a hard stare and he backed down. Idgrod refused to accept defeat.

'You don't understand, Mother,' she tried again. 'It's not as simple as you think-'

'Idgrod,' Mother said sharply.

'No! You can't just ignore me this time!' she screamed in a rush of emotions, before drawing herself back, breathing heavily, dreading Mother's response.

'That's enough,' she said coldly. 'Get out.'

Idgrod licked her lips and nodded, before taking Joric by the arm. They left without a word and emerged into the sunlight of Morthal. _The town looks a little better in the sun. Not by much, but a little. _She nearly pushed aside the random thought, before holding onto it. It was better than accepting the truth of what had just happened in there. _It had fallen apart so quickly. _She could hardly believe it.

Djurien yanked her from her thoughts, and she faced him wearily. 'What happened? What did the Jarl say?'

'Nothing,' Idgrod replied bitterly. 'She's going to do nothing about it, whatsoever.'

'She's sending out Carl Gorm to investigate,' Joric corrected her quietly.

'Gorm's useless!' she blazed. 'The man couldn't find his own steel even if it was stuck in his stupid head.' Idgrod let out an angry breath and thrust her hands onto her hips, while the others watched her cautiously. Her mind went to Thorek, who would have been far more competent in this situation. _He would have just stormed into the inn where they said they were meeting and found them. _Idgrod frowned as the idea came to her, and then smiled.

'What are we going to do now?' Joric asked, moving towards her slowly.

Idgrod spun around with a triumphant expression. 'Simple. We're going to find the men at the inn.'

'That would be stupid,' Djurien pointed out. 'We could be killed.'

'Or worse,' Joric added.

Idgrod shook her head. 'It's either this, or Mother dies.' She glared at them.

'She's not my Mother,' Djurien said, about to walk away.

'But she's your Jarl, who you've sworn to protect.'

He stopped, his back to her, and then turned, gritting his teeth. 'Fine, we'll go to your inn. But just so you know, this is suicide.'

Idgrod shrugged. 'I'm not asking for your life, only your help.'

He eyed her, and nodded. They started walking and Joric began to follow them, but Djurien held him back. 'Not this time, kid. You can't fight yet, and this might get messy.'

'Idgrod can't fight either,' her brother pointed out.

Djurien glanced at her, but he gave him a resolute stare. She was wasn't going anyway. 'This is her mad scheme,' he sighed. 'That's the end of it.'

'Look after Mother, Joric,' Idgrod told him, and he nodded slightly sullenly, before trudging back to the longhouse. 'One minute he wants nothing to do with swords, and the next he's racing to take on some warriors,' she commented as they began walking to the inn.

'Different circumstances.'

'Quite,' Idgrod agreed.

**The Moorside Inn was a **quiet place, normally. Morthal was small anyway, and hadn't even had a real inn before the owners had arrived. It was a squat place, and made of dark wood with thatch covering the top. It had a chimney though and was cosy enough once you were inside.

Idgrod quickly realised why the mysterious conspirators had chosen to stage their meeting in the inn at this time; the place was packed with workers from the mill and the farms, all clamouring for a beer to sate their lunchtime hunger.

Idgrod pulled up her hood; as the Jarl's daughter she would be too easily recognised, and that might dissuade the conspirators from discussing their plot. Djurien did the same, as he was well connected to her and any mention of him with another woman might raise suspicions. Idgrod realised with a start that that was how people viewed them; it made her uncomfortable to think about it.

They sat on a bench and Djurien ordered drinks so that they could pass off as travellers while Idgrod watched the inn with wary eyes, waiting for something to happen. After a short amount of time, Djurien leaned over to whisper;

'Do you see anything?'

Idgrod shook her head before whispering back. 'You'd have thought they would be easier to find.'

'Maybe they aren't coming?'

'They have to be. Wait a while longer.'

Djurien nodded and leant back against the table while Idgrod studied the place. _Lots of people, but no mysterious men. _She was about to call the search to a halt, when they entered. Idgrod had only caught a glimpse of them from behind the tree, but she knew immediately that it was them. They walked with light steps, and there were two of them. Scarf's and hoods concealed their faces, but instead of sitting at the bar, they moved on and into a private room. Idgrod nudged Djurien and he caught on instantly. They rose, and moved after the men, up to the door, where they stopped to plan their next move.

'What do you suggest?' Djurien asked, as he pressed his ear against the wood. 'I can't hear a thing.'

Idgrod shot an angry glance behind her. 'That's because of these damn people.'

'Order them out?' Djurien suggested.

'And reveal ourselves? No, I don't think so.' Idgrod let out a growl of frustration, annoyed at her inability to do anything. 'We were so close. So close…' An idea sprang into her mind, sending sparks of frantic energy through her. 'Djurien,' she hissed. 'Get us a room.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Now, Idgrod? Really?'

'No, you idiot!' she cried, blushing. 'Get the room next to theirs. Pull rank if you have to.'

Djurien's face dropped, rose, and turned into a frown quite comically. Then she smiled as he realised what she was doing. 'Right, of course.' He strode off and returned a minute later with the key. _A minute too long, _Idgrod thought anxiously. They needed to get in now!

He shoved the door open and Idgrod pushed past him, and pressed herself against the wall that led to the conspirator's room. Djurien closed the door, and Idgrod trained her hearing. With a squeal of delight, she could make out the voices on the other side. Djurien pressed his ear against the wall as well, his brow furrowing as he listened.

'… _gathering there tonight.' _

'_Where are we going this time?' _

'_The summoning circle, just outside town. They're all going to there, including The Lord.' _

_You mean The King's sent one of his lackeys to help us.' _

'_He won't allow a mistake for this job. It's very important.' _

'_I could have guessed. Regicide of a Jarl isn't something you do everyday.' _

'_No, it isn't. You know the time.' _

'_Aye. I'll see you there then.' _

There was a shuffling on the other side of the door and Idgrod moved back, gratified, but worried. 'We don't know the time. We need to track one of those men down,' she said anxiously.

Djurien nodded and strode from the door. The men were just leaving as they emerged and without a word the two Nords followed them, out into the warm sunshine. They made their way round a corner of the inn, into the sprawling housing section of Morthal and Djurien led the way round the corner… to find them gone. 

'No!' Idgrod cried out. 'How could we have lost them?'

Djurien put a hand over her mouth without a word, hushing her, and moved forward carefully, looking around himself. They were in an alley now, and he moved forward, peering round the next corner…

A shape burst out, knocking him aside. Djurien let out a cry and regained his footing, powering after his attacker. Idgrod followed in a burst of speed, happy that she was wearing leggings and not a stupid dress.

They burst round the corner, with Djurien in the lead. The man was fast though, and his cloak whipped out behind him as he pounded through the alleys, throwing up mud behind him. Idgrod managed to pull an extra bit of speed from her legs, and followed him up the alley. The ground was dry, so it made it easier as they twisted round corners and over the gates dividing tiny properties. Even so, the man and Djurien were faster than her, and they started pulling ahead. She followed them through a maze before they disappeared, and she staggered to a halt, breathing heavily. Sweat pricked down her brow, and she pushed back her hair, drawing in a deep lungful of air. She let out a spluttering cough and then looked up. They were nowhere to be seen.

Idgrod started trotting through the maze, listening carefully. She searched for a minute or so before giving up. _It's hopeless. _Her legs were on fire, and she leaned down, annoyed at her own inability before she heard a scuffle ahead of her. She started running again, ignoring the pain, and came up round the corner to see Djurien and the man.

The future Carl had blood running down his lip as he squared off against his opponent. Both their weapons, a sword and a dagger, were scattered in the mud. Neither man noticed her as the conspirator leapt forward, but Djurien caught his arms and slammed him into the wall of a house. He tried to lock his arms behind the man's back, but the conspirator shoved backwards off the wall, throwing the Nord off balance. He came round with a swinging haymaker that hit Djurien with explosive force right in the jaw. But those punches were actually very weak, and the Nord growled, slamming into the conspirator and throwing him over his head.

The man fell, and his hood came off to reveal a bald Redguard. His face was murderous, and he grabbed for his dagger. Djurien was wiping his jaw, unaware of the immediate danger. Idgrod had been stunned until now, but her voice came back quickly. 'Djurien, watch out!' she screamed.

The Redguard pounced with his dagger, but Djurien managed to turn in time, and catch the hilt. He was thrown down, with the Redguard on top of him, pressing the dagger towards his throat. The Nord was stronger, but the advantage was the Redguard's, who forced the weapon down with a steady inevitability. Idgrod watched in horror as the dagger drew closer and closer to Djurien's throat, before she realised what she had to do.

Without another thought, she swept forward, drawing her own dagger. The Redguard looked up briefly, and frowned, before Idgrod punched her blade into his back. He let out a scream and Djurien acted quickly. The Nord reversed the dagger, so close to his throat, and slammed into up under the Redguard's jaw. He let out a choking sound, and blood ran down onto Djurien, who pushed the body off of him in disgust, stepping back quickly.

The former conspirator shook and spasmed, then fell limb. The two Nords watched the body, breathing heavily, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Idgrod regained her voice first, and was surprise at the storm it carried with it.

'What did you do!' she shouted, aghast at having lost the chance to save Mother, and, secretly, to prove herself.

Djurien looked unsure. 'I did what I had to. He would have killed me, and you,' he pointed out, indicating with his finger, 'without a second's hesitation.'

'That's not what I mean! We needed the information.'

Djurien swallowed, realising his mistake. A look of regret crossed his face. 'Idgrod, I'm so sorry…'

'Save it!' she barked, and turned away. 'Thorek would never have let that happen,' she half mumbled to herself. Djurien heard it though.

'Thorek?' His voice took on an icy edge. 'Thorek who? Who is he?' he demanded, and Idgrod whirled around furiously, intending to hurt.

'The man I love!' _I think, _a voice told her quickly. _It doesn't matter; _it had done what she had wanted it to do.

Djurien pulled back, looking suddenly like a fish out of water, lost. Sympathy rose in Idgrod but she suppressed it sharply. 'What's he like?' he asked, quietly, even dangerously.

Idgrod frowned. _How can I describe him? He's so many things. _'Anything but you,' she replied cruelly.

'Oh yeah,' Djurien said. He turned before whipping back around. 'What's wrong with me!'

Idgrod shook her head. 'Nothing, I thought. But you're not him.'

'And that's what this is all about,' he said, nodding as if everything made sense. 'I should have known,' he said bitterly.

'What is "all this"?' Idgrod challenged him.

'The way you've been acting. All distant and lonesome.'

'You don't like me like this?' Idgrod asked, just to try and challenge him to fuel her own anger, to satisfy herself.

'No, of course not. You look sad, Idgrod,' he said quietly. There was genuine pain beneath his words.

Idgrod ignored that. 'Thorek would have liked me,' she told him spitefully.

'Really?' He worked his jaw. 'So, I'm not Thorek's equal, am I? I never will be.'

'No,' she said. 'Never.'

Hurt flashed across his face, and he turned away. He stood still for a second, before striding away through the alley. Idgrod watched him go defiantly, before sagging, exhausted. She had let her anger get the best of her, and she shouldn't have, but there was nothing she could do now, about any of it. Mother was going to die, and Djurien had abandoned her. Idgrod slumped to the ground, and started crying.


	45. Fatal Victories

**This chapter is a crucial one, because it changes a lot. The next chapter will return to Nelkir, so we can see what he's be up to since we left him. I'm also going to be working on Dragonblood, and try and get out the next pesky chapter, so Season's End's next update might take a little longer (might). **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I'm glad you like the line. I liked it. Why Redguards indeed? Why kill Idgrod? It all has a purpose, that has been building up for a long time. Thorek only really displayed his good side (mostly) so she never saw the other parts. But yep, she's crazy. Sorry about the grammar stuff. I proof read, but you never quite catch everything. Yes, you are correct in thinking you know what for Ralof. It does explain a lot. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Cool. I'm glad you liked it! If Ulfric had been King, Thongvor would still have been formidable. I can say that no one would have surrendered, and Thongvor would not have got on his knees, because he is made of much tougher stuff. Well, Alsfur might ascend to full Dragonborn; it depends on what powers he inherits from Jon. Yep, if Ralof hadn't stopped Thorek, things would be a lot better now. It's true; if they had all these forces, they could destroy everything. Thanks to everyone who read this and reviewed and favourited and everything. **

**Cool. Okay, let's continue I guess. **

**Carl Thorek Silver-Blood**

**Carl Thorek Silver-Blood stood **in the training yard of Whiterun. He held his sword loosely in his hand, circling the Crown Prince Frothar carefully. As Lord Housecarl, among his many other duties was the training of the King's son's, or son, in arms. _He is a good fighter_, Thorek conceded. Much better than those pieces of shit in the ranks.

Frothar thrust forward and Thorek parried the blow, before moving forward, slashing his head down on the Prince's head. Most Housecarl's held back, but Silver-Blood didn't. After all, if Frothar took no hits, he would never learn. Wind-Shifter met the strike though and swung his sword into Thorek's stomach. In most circumstances, this move would have killed the opponent; _but I'm not most enemies. _He slammed down his gauntleted hand, knocking aside the sword then whipping his pommel across the Prince's face. He fell back in a spurt of blood and Thorek stepped forward, pressing his point to Frothar's throat.

'Yield,' he asked.

'I never yield,' he answered defiantly.

'Then you die.' Thorek dropped his sword. 'You are a capable fighter, and honourable in battle, as a King must be. But you need to learn when to know a lost cause.'

'No cause is lost until every man gives up,' Frothar answered as he picked himself up, studying the blood on his hand.

Thorek shrugged and pushed back his hair. 'Try telling your father that.'

'One battle does not make a war,' Frothar replied testily. _Loyalty is also good. _

'No,' Thorek agreed. 'But a cock-up like that does.'

'Enough, Housecarl,' Frothar commanded. 'That's it.'

Silver-Blood shrugged again, unconcerned by Frothar's anger, and handed the Prince his sword. 'Put this back then.'

Frothar frowned at the lack of deference, but did it anyway. It had turned out that when they had started training, the boy was actually quite easy going, and likable enough. He tried hard, and was willing to please. In addition, the boy stubbornly defended his father, sometimes past the point of reason, but loyalty was not a bad thing. _More than Father would ever attribute to me, _Thorek reflected somewhat moodily. He sighed and followed the Prince.

'You'll do bow in a second. Grab the equipment and I'll see you out on the range.' The Prince nodded; on the practice field, the Lord Housecarl's word was law.

Thorek left him and strolled over to the Master-At-Arms, who was waiting by the range. Silver-Blood looked up at the sky; he had half an hour before he was to meet the King.

'Carl Thorek,' Satangar acknowledged as he approached.

'Carl Satangar,' Silver-Blood replied. He pushed back his hair again and studied the Master-At-Arms. He was short and squat, but built like a brick shithouse. He was formidable with an axe as well, but still not quite good enough for Thorek, who smiled as he recounted their last duel. It had been bloody, and fierce. 'The Prince is going to practice his archery,' Thorek explained. 'I'm needed to deal with the movement of the army, so I'm assigning this little bout of sunshine to you.'

'Why you?' Satangar asked. 'Why not-'

'One of the King's captains, or Jarls?' Thorek supplied. 'Well, the captains are shit at their jobs and the Jarls are a rare breed in Whiterun now.' Most of then had fled with their men to return to home. Some had stayed, and most had left most of their real strength behind, but even so, things were getting messy. In comparison, Father had only strengthened his forces, and kept them compact. Even now he was reportedly marching on Whiterun, but Thorek didn't believe that. He was far too cautious to try to attack the capital. Nonetheless, he was certainly proving that his abilities at war and army organisation far exceeded Balgruuf's.

Without another word Silver-Blood left him alone and strode off to find the men in charge of the King's forces. On his way, Thorek stopped outside on a balcony overlooking the city. The tents of the King's Men were spread out in a great sprawling mess outside the capital, clearly visible even from a mile away in the warm air. _Many colours, but no black. _The new Jarl Windhelm had left with his forces to secure his land and regroup. He had pledged Balgruuf loyalty, and Thorek didn't doubt his honour, but still... _Alsfur Stormcloak will be back, but when?_ It seemed likely that he might return too late to save the King from Father, but even if he did what did it matter anyway? The new Stormcloak was young, naïve and bitter. _Likely as not, he won't put up much of a fight against Father; or anyone in fact._ _The Dragonblood died with Jon Stormcloak. _That much seemed apparent_. _

The death of a legend had barely affected Thorek. He had long since become disillusioned with the man, but even so one had to respect his final moments. They had been extraordinary, by all accounts, and no doubt a decent song would be sung of it. But today; the city still mourned its lost hero. Thorek was more pragmatic though. _We need to respond to Father soon, or else lose all morale, and once that was done, there is doubt as to the outcome of this war._

The prospect of defeat held no fear for Thorek. He had stopped fearing Father's victories, or anger, a long time ago. This was just another one for Jarl Silver-Blood to place on the mantelpiece, admittably on a much on a larger scale. Besides, defeat would bring an honourable death, provably, which had to be worth it if nothing else was.

Thorek found Balgruuf's captains in the war room, as he had expected, sweating over their next move. There were only a few of them there: three Thanes, several Theyns and no Jarls. The King himself had retired to his apartments and Thorek couldn't blame him. It was painful watching these so called 'war-leaders' at work. Silver-Blood had never thought he had particular skill at strategy, one of the only things he admitted to himself, but he could pick out poor planning, and that was all that was issuing from their mouths and onto the figure movements on the map. Normally, the Jarls played a key part in strategy, surpassing these men, but they were breaking up, and leaving. _Everything is bloody breaking up. Someone needs to pull it all back together again, _he thought angrily. The King wasn't up to the task, most of the Jarls had left and Jon Stormcloak was dead. If ever there had been a time he was needed, Thorek admitted bitterly, it was now.

Balgruuf's captains were his Thanes, and their bannermen, the Theyns. The Jarls had taken their men, and those that remained preferred to work on their own strategies with their fellows; _mistrust and discord. More reasons for our inevitable defeat. _The captain's turned on his approach.

'Carl Thorek. We were not expecting to see you.'

'Really?' he questioned, raising an eyebrow. 'It seems your abilities for foresight are as bad as your military ones.' He sat down and propped his legs up on the table with an easy air. One of the captains looked outraged, and he stood, his arms pressed to the table. Thorek threw a languid motion in his direction. 'Easy, mate. I can feel the table tilting from here.'

'You may be Lord Housecarl, but I am Thane Olfrid Battleborn!' he protested angrily.

'Right, interesting,' Thorek said dismissively. 'You?' He pointed at another of the captains

'Sond Hufwein, Thane of Anvar,' he replied. _There is decidedly a lack of females here, _Thorek noticed. _Idgrod wouldn't be welcome. _

'Right. And you're a Graymane,' he guessed, pointing at a man with grey hair.

'That's right,' he said tightly.

'See, you all boast about your titles, and names, but you can't seem to do shit on the battlefield.'

'Now wait there,' Battleborn protested, but Thorek cut him off.

'You want to argue? Tell me which battle you've won.'

'I am the first son of the first son,' Battleborn rambled, but Thorek cut through it like a knife to butter

'So am I. You don't see me doing fucking cartwheels around the palace, now do you?' He stood up, glaring around at them all. 'I already know how incompetent you are, and I don't care about your birth. I also know you can cower the normal men, but guess what; I'm not one of them.'

'If you would give us time to justify ourselves,' Hufwein interjected quickly.

Thorek considered it; it would be more fun to punish time regardless and continue his lecture. _Maybe I should though?_ He nodded, but before Thane Anvar could say anything, Graymane stood.

'Stay, Sond,' he said, holding out a hand. 'Before he comes in here acting all mighty, I want to know under which authority he operates.'

Thorek gave him a look that conveyed his utter incredulity at his stupidity. 'Which King do I serve?' he asked sarcastically.

Graymane smiled again. 'Now that's a question.' Silver-Blood could only watch as he continued. 'See, I remember your last name, Thorek. It seems very much like our enemies; Jarl Markarth.'

'Silver-Blood.'

'What?' Graymane looked confused.

'It's Silver-Blood, dickhead. Get your clan names right at least before you threaten me.'

'What? That's not-'

'My apologies, Thane Graymane. I realise that it is easy to confuse you. Maybe you're tired? Perhaps it would be better if you sit this council meeting out?' It wasn't a suggestion, it was an order. Thorek had taken on Father's stance; firm, powerful, and dangerous. To Silver-Blood's gratification, Graymane swept from the room without another word, and Thorek smiled, turning back to the more competent captains. 'We seem to be sparse on the ground. Perhaps we should call forth a few more of the captains?' Thorek asked, ignoring what had just happened; they would remember it well enough. Giving them power would make them less willing to oppose him, especially if they felt they had one up on their rival Thane. _Hence why no one supported Graymane._ Thorek had to smile at his own brilliance.

'No, I think not. We can carry any message you have to the others,' Battleborn said quickly.

Thorek nodded, indifferent. 'Jarl Markarth,' the others smiled at his use of the title after Graymane's dismissal;' is likely marching on Whiterun. Why not? After all, he knows we are weakened, and morale is low. What we need now is a victory.'

'We could hold them off at the city. The defences held back Ulfric Stormcloak, a better tactician than this man,' Thane Anvar pointed out. _I wouldn't underestimate Father. _

'Ulfric was a fighter, never a tactician. He never had the patience, from what I heard from the King,' Thorek told them. 'In addition, the Dragonborn fought in the defender's ranks. The _Dragonborn. _What do you think that would do to a man's morale on either side of the wall, eh?' The remaining Thanes shifted uncomfortably.

Thorek leaned forward, spreading his hands over the map. 'See, I think we need to intercept him before. We might be able to win a pitched battle, but I wouldn't rest my chances on it. Father has a knack for formation fighting.'

Battleborn was about to raise his voice, but then a messenger burst into the room, making directly for Thorek.

'Lord Housecarl. I have bad news.'

'Spit it out then,' Thorek said. That just made the boy more nervous. Silver-Blood ignored his uncertainly.

'Solitude's forces marched from the city during the night,' he whispered, coming in close. 'They engaged Jarl Silver-Blood over the White River, in defence.' The messenger's voice broke as he told the next part. 'He crossed, my Carl. He routed the Solitudian forces and captured their commander.'

Dismay gripped Thorek completely, but he forced it from his face. The other Thanes looked around wide eyed, in total shock, having strained their ears to listen. 'Who was the commander?' Silver-Blood asked.

'Aenar Kingsblood.'

'Not Elisif. That's one thing.' He turned, hands on hips, nodding, before suddenly exploding. 'Fucking asshole! What was he thinking!' he roared at them. He slammed his fists into the war table, breathing heavily, before turning back to the messenger. The boy looked about to faint. 'Who else was captured, or killed? Quickly now.'

'Er, my Carl,' he stammered. 'Thane Dagur Sword-Point of Lonely Hollow was killed. His daughter Jolding will ascend as Jarl. Thane Areas Strong-Arm, Thane of Stark, Aenar's older brother, was also captured. Two Thegns were killed, and one captured, Silstan of Long Hearth, I think.'

'What a bloody disaster,' Thorek muttered angrily. Hr couldn't believe them! Why had they done that? Foolishness and stupidity where the only answers. That and pride. Silver-Blood cursed again and looked at his captains. 'It seems that we will be defending Whiterun, gentlemen,' he said calmly. 'Now,' he drew himself up, 'the King will want someone to take this out on, and I'd hate to deny him the pleasure of berating the son of his enemy.' Without another word he strode from the war room, making for the King's apartments. The halls were surprisingly quiet; surely the whole palace would have heard the news by now. The few guards that Thorek did see gave him a cursory nod, but there was no alarm behind it.

Silver-Blood quickened his pace to the King, his mind racing through possibilities of what could have happened to him, all of them becoming very deadly all of the sudden. He knocked on the door to the King's solar and then barged in, his hand on his sword. But no one strange was there, and Thorek let out a breath of relief. The King looked up from his desk with a gloomy expression.

'Sit, Thorek,' he said quietly. The Housecarl did, eyeing the King suspiciously. 'Your presence here can mean only one thing, can't it? You've heard the news.'

'The palace is remarkable quiet, Your Majesty,' Thorek noted.

The King rubbed his eyes. 'I haven't told them yet. The messenger will see that any men who heard it with you won't either.'

'Me, Your Majesty? Why did you tell me?'

'He's your Father, Thorek. And you are my Housecarl.' Silver-Blood was humbled by the King's newfound trust in him, and his calm demeanour. There was no shouting, or accusations…

'Thank you,' Thorek said quietly, with genuine meaning. They stayed silent for a little while, both men sitting opposite each other, before Balgruuf spoke up.

'I miss Jon. This would never have happened if he had been king. He made me king you know.' _And we saw how that turned out. _He didn't say it though. 'There's no point brooding, I suppose. I may have lost the father, but I still have the son. Alsfur Stormcloak,' he said, tasting the name on his tongue. 'What do you make of him?'

'Honestly, Your Majesty?' Balgruuf nodded. 'Naïve. As useful as a summer spring.' The King looked upset. 'But a strong one,' Thorek added, smiling.

Balgruuf returned it. 'He will have to do. With the Kingsblood's defeated, and my own power diminished, it seems that only the Stormcloaks can stand up to the Silver-Blood's now.'

'I'm with you as well, Your Majesty. You do realise that don't you?'

'Let's hope you have more of your father in you than Alsfur Stormcloak then.' They fell silent again, before Silver-Blood spoke.

'There will be a siege,' Thorek said without preamble.

The King sighed. 'I've been in one of those, but I was a much younger man.'

'So I've heard.'

'Well, last time it was just me and Jon against all of Skyrim, so the odds aren't too bad, I guess.' He started chuckling and Thorek followed suit. Balgruuf reached for wine, but Silver-Blood rejected the offer. 'I'm on duty, Your Majesty.'

Balgruuf grinned. 'Ah, of course.' Silver-Blood stood, but the King stopped him. 'You are a damn good Housecarl, Thorek. It was my fault for being an arse at first. I made the right choice though, regardless of family ties. As it should be.' He sat back and Thorek nodded his thanks, before leaving the room to take his place outside the solar.

Thorek rubbed his hands together, and stood still, watching the corridor in front of him. A few minutes passed, but Thorek didn't mind; he enjoyed this moments as times in which he could contemplate on his life. Besides, the sun shined in through the window, with none of the cold wind, warming the Housecarl nicely. He pushed back his hair, and thought about the King. It seemed as if he had finally won the older man's trust and respect. Thorek's heart leapt strangely at the prospect; it was something he wasn't used to receiving. He thought about the opposite to Balgruuf: Father; what was he thinking right now? Did he miss him? Somehow, Thorek thought not.

Footsteps brought him from his rumination and he looked to see a woman walking up to him, a silver tray in her hands. As with all the King's female servants, she wore a hood to conceal her face, so as not to tempt His Majesty, but her body would be good enough to do that. She was gorgeous! Thorek stood half stunned as he examined her, watching the way she moved. _Talos above… _If the King managed to resist her, he was a better man than Thorek. There was no doubt about it; he needed to speak to her. Silver-Blood moved forward to intercept her.

'What are you doing?' he asked smoothly, blocking the doorway.

Her eyes glimmered with a beautiful light from beneath the hood, and Thorek tried to catch a glimpse of her face, but she was keeping her head down. 'I don't know,' she replied teasingly. Her tone had some hidden fire behind it though, which Thorek liked.

'I do.'

She stepped back. 'You do, huh?'

'You're coming back with me.'

'I'm not sure,' she said in a way that suggested she _was_ considering it.

'I am. Come on.'

'Aren't you on duty?'

'Aren't you?' Thorek asked, flashing her a grin.

'I'm trying to serve the King.'

'You'd prefer serving me,' he said.

'Ah, a sexual innuendo,' she laughed lightly, and beautifully. 'Very droll, Lord Housecarl.'

'What can I say, I'm a funny guy.'

'What makes you think I like funny guys?'

Thorek shrugged. 'You're still here, aren't you?'

She nodded her head in recognition of the fact. 'You know, I need to get going.' She made to move past him, but Silver-Blood caught her arm lightly. It was smooth, but toned. _Shit. _He couldn't believe his luck. Or Balgruuf's, the old bastard.

'I'll wait back at my apartments then. You don't know where they are?' he asked quickly, letting go of her. 'You want an escort? I'll stay right here then.' She looked back at him, and Thorek could have sworn he could see a smile on her shadowed face before she entered the solar. Silver-Blood nodded numbly, staring at the door she went through. He considered going in anyway, with some fake emergency, but then he heard a noise behind him, a shuffling motion. Thorek whipped round as a dagger slammed into his side.

It was sharp, unnaturally so, and buried itself into his lower ribs. Thorek fell back against the wall from the force of the blow with a gasp of pain and a man appeared in front of him. He leapt forward, stabbing with another dagger he held back-handed and Thorek caught his forearm. The pain from the weapon in his ribs was beginning to sear up his body, and he couldn't concentrate. The dagger inched closer to his face. They were so close he could see the other man, as sweat pricked his brow. He was unremarkable, except for his attire, which was all black leather, and expensive. The dagger was getting closer and panic rose up Thorek's throat. He had to act, or die.

With a burst of reckless courage he let go of his grip on the man's forearm, and jerked his head to the side. Silver-Blood wasn't fast enough to miss the blade entirely and it cut a long gash across his cheek. Ignoring the blow, Thorek drew his sword in a rush of steel, opening the man's stomach, revealing his blood and guts. Silver-Blood kicked him away as he let out a scream that rang throughout the hall. He fell back against the wall, and pulled out the dagger with a sharp cry. Pain shot up his blood like icy fire. The weapon was stained red along a few generous inches of its blade. Thorek let out a breath before noticing the second man, who was coming at him with a sword.

Silver-Blood met his strike desperately, caught off guard, and moved to the side, backing away from the wall as their blades kissed once, twice, a third time. Thorek's strength was flagging, and he knew it. _I need to end this now, _he thought desperately. With nothing to lose, Thorek moved forward, locking the man's sword an inch from above his head with his own hilt, and then swept out the man's leg. He fell to the ground and Thorek swung his sword into his head, decapitating him cleanly. Blood splattered the polished wood of Dragonsreach, and the man's head rolled across a rug, leaving a bloody trail as it did so, like a new swirling pattern on its golden surface. Thorek's side throbbed painfully, and he gritted his teeth as his mind returned to him. _The King! _In a burst of panic, realising the maid and the men's timing couldn't have been a coincidence, Thorek slammed himself against the door. It held though, and he let out a roar as he tried again. It gave a little, so Silver-Blood stepped back and kicked it with all his force, channelling his fear and anxiety into the blow. The door splintered and Thorek smashed through it and into the King's solar. At first nothing looked disturbed, but that pleasant fantasy didn't last long. Silver-Blood's heart sank, dragging with it icy chills, and a storm of pain at his failure.

Balgruuf was still in his chair, but his head lolled back grotesquely, his eyes wide and blank. Blood ran down from the clean slash across his throat; the King had never even had the chance to defend himself. He had tried to though, Thorek noted numbly. His hand had knocked over the sword resting against his desk. Presumably the clatter of failure had been his last feeling, just as it seemed it was Thorek's.

The Housecarl stepped forward numbly, not quite believing what had happened. Before, he might not have cared, but just now Balgruuf had shown a different side; what a Housecarl relationship was really meant to be, and Thorek had missed that chance. The King might have been like a true father to him, but that was gone too. _All of it; gone! _

His rage came out in the form of vengeful violence. Thorek threw his sword down and screamed. It consumed him, and he didn't notice the men enter the solar, weapons drawn. A hand on his shoulder brought Thorek back to reality, and he turned, his breath coming out in sharp bursts to see a guard. He looked around and there was the King's son, Frothar. Their earlier conversation echoed through his head as Wind-Shifter shot him an accusing glare.

Guilt rocked his body, but Thorek warded it off, watching them all. Everybody was staring at him with expressions of accusation, and pity. Thorek hated that most of all.

'What happened?' Frothar asked.

'I don't know,' Thorek replied numbly.

The Prince looked away, and then back again, unbelievingly. 'I don't know what to say.' He looked back at the body of his father, and touched his cheek gently, tears forming in his eyes. 'You're dismissed, Silver-Blood,' he said simply.

Thorek almost protested, but one look around him was all that was needed to know that no one would support for him. 'Fine. I'll leave.'

'I want you to swear your oath, Thorek. To avenge my father,' Frothar told him. His look brooked no argument.

Silver-Blood picked up his sword, ignoring the Prince. 'Who among you will replace me, eh?' He looked at them all, before back at Frothar. 'Who?'

'In time,' he said dismissively. 'Now, swear to avenge him.'

Thorek glared round at them all, and stepped back. Two men barred his way, and he stopped, watching the Prince's blue-grey eyes. Fire lurked behind them, like Silver-Blood's own. That he could relate to. He had no choice anyway it seemed.

'I,' he began carefully, 'Thorek of Clan Silver-Blood, son of Thongvor, swear on my honour, and my life, that I will not rest until Balgruuf Wind-Shifter's killers are brought to justice, by my hand. I will find no rest until that day, in this life, or the next.' Thorek let out a deep rattling breath, but there was no more guilt. The accusing stares around him had driven it out. A crushing weight had fallen down onto his shoulders though, threatening to destroy him if he couldn't resist it. 'Long live the king.' And then he swept out and down the corridors of Whiterun as the cries echoed out behind him.

'Long live a king,' Thorek whispered. It was time to see his father.

**Whoa. Thorek kind of wrote himself this time. It was weird, and… eye opening. Like Father and Son I guess. **


	46. Unwelcome Truths

**Sorry for the delay. I've been working trough Dragonblood, but did this I the gaps. I like the conversation between Thaena and Nelkir, if I say so myself. **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I meant Jolding will ascend as Thane, so hat was my mistake. Thorek is coo, and I'm glad you hate/like him. Balgruuf was a legend, as a Jarl. Many questions indeed. Also, I wanted to get this out, so it was lucky I was done! You won't see the assassination except perhaps in memory. To Darthtexas, thanks for the review! I'm sorry that's sad, but Thorek isn't looking to kill Thongvor, yet. To DeathBladeVI, thanks for the review! Cool, I'm glad you liked it! Selina is her name, so it is a hunt for her now. To Keywork-Sage, thanks for the Story Favourite! To , thanks for the Story Follower. To SirACookie (nice name), thanks for all the Favourites and Story Followers! There were a lot! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Idgrod Senior is still alive. I'm really pleased you liked Thorek! Yes, if Ulfric or Jon had been King, there would have been no uprising. You might see them again, but we'll see. Thorek should have been able to see Selina was a dud. Coo, I'm glad you agree with me on Jon's death and his mistakes! (That's two on this team!) Murder Thongvor. That was quite funny. I'll try. To W1ZARD thanks for the Favourites for my stories. **

**I need to go, so here it is. Bye. **

**Nelkir, of Solitude**

'**House sorting is coming up **soon,' Marco said as he sat down next to Nelkir of Solitude. Farman followed him and sat down opposite them. Carrion came over last, positively buzzing.

'House sorting?' Nelkir asked, raising an eyebrow. He ripped off a chuck of the brown bread that had come with his stew and loaded it with potatoes and some of the sparse meat, before shoving it into his mouth. It was fairly tasteless, but warm, and no one had any complaints about how he ate it, which was a welcome relief.

'Yeah, you know. Shadows, Archivists, and all that stuff,' Marco explained, as Carrion got up to get some food. 'Hey, get me some,' The Imperial said, before turning back to Nelkir. 'Where do you think you'll be put?'

'Honestly,' the Bastard ladled more of his stew onto the bread; 'I don't really give a damn.'

'Well, I do,' Farman said, leaning forward. 'It'll be the Swords for me.'

'Oh really? I was convinced you were an Archivist,' Marco joked, as Carrion returned with their food.

Farman gave him a dark look as Marco examined the stew in its wooden bowl, passing the bread to Nelkir who seized it hungrily (Marco hated the brown bread), and then gave it a sniff. 'Looks like rabbit again.'

'I'm fairly convinced that's all that grows along this side of the world,' Carrion announced.

'Yeah, yeah, be quiet, Archivist,' Marco said, poking it with a distasteful look. He tried a bit, frowned, and tried another bit. Everyone had already been assigned a house prediction by their group, except for Nelkir who remained an enigma. It seemed as if no one had any idea of where he should go. The trainers were of the same opinion, it seemed. Nelkir could feel their eyes on him as he worked, trying to determine what he was bad enough at to cross off the list, while trying to see if he was actually good at anything. It was a painful process, but a fair one at least. _My birth has no place in it. _

'Gods!' Farman cursed as he pulled out a rabbit ear from his stew. 'Shit, what the hell is this?'

'That would be the rabbit,' Nelkir said quietly. Carrion chuckled as Marco pushed his away from him.

'I've just decided I'm actually not that hungry.' The Imperial passed it over to Nelkir who shrugged and started eating from it.

Farman pushed aside his stew distastefully as well, and leaned forward. 'Have you heard about the contest?'

Carrion was braving the stew, and glanced up now. 'What contest?'

'The one where we try and determine the best fighter from among the recruits,' Farman said excitedly.

'Sounds like a chance for some arrogant twats to prove they're better than us,' Carrion declared.

'It is,' the Redguard agreed. 'But come on; we could win this.'

'How does it work?' Marco asked, ever practical.

'We chooses two fighters-'

'Oh, we're already a team now,' the Imperial said, raising his eyebrows.

Farman scowled. 'Just keep listening. Two fighters on a team; whoever gets the most victories wins.'

'I assume the Masters don't know about this,' Carrion said bleakly.

'Of course not. Completely brutal; anything goes,' Farman confirmed with relish.

'Who's taking part?' Marco asked, scratching a random pattern into the wooden tablet top.

'Just about everyone. Arras is taking part as well,' he said with a glance at Nelkir. The Nord ignored him.

'Then we've lost,' Marco summed up.

'Not necessarily.' Farman looked around at them but when he realised he wasn't winning any support, he turned back to Nelkir. 'Come on, Solitude. It'd be a great idea.'

Nelkir looked up from his stew, glancing round at them all. They were watching him with curious stares. 'No, it wouldn't be.' Farman let out a sigh and shut up about it. Carrion drew the conversation to books but the Bastard hardly paid it any attention.

'Hi, Nelkir.'

Solitude jerked around to come face to face with Thaena. He balked for a second and she smiled sweetly. 'Nice stew.'

'What?' He frowned, and looked down at the stew bowls that surrounded him. Clearly his friends had been generous with their sharing. 'Er, no this aren't really mine-'

'I like a guy who eats well,' she said nonchalantly.

'These? Yeah, most of them are mine.' He coughed. 'Not all of them though.'

'Right,' she smiled. 'Well, looks good.'

Nelkir stood up, ignoring the jeers of his friends who had just noticed this interesting development. 'It's shit really. Do you want to get some?'

Thaena smiled again. 'It's shit, but you want to feed it to me?' she asked, teasingly.

'Feed you?' He shook his head as he friends started calling out sexual innuendos. 'Erm, let's go.' He pushed her forward, away from his 'friends', and over to the cook, who was serving the stew up to disgruntled Blades. 'One,' Nelkir told the man, holding up a finger.

'Nelkir, _again_. Haven't you had enough?'

He glanced back at Thaena, who was watching with an amused expression. He considered arguing that it wasn't for him, but didn't want to seem like a prick and merely nodded. The cook passed over the bowl, and he handed it to Thaena.

'You're sure you want me to have this? I thought it was yours?' she asked playfully, like a light wind, twisting and turning as her mood took her. Nelkir shook his head.

'It's yours,' he said bluntly, forcing it into her hand.

She took it, surprised by Nelkir's sudden motion, before beaming happily, 'Thanks!'

Nelkir couldn't help but return the smile. 'Right. Come on. Let's get away from these dickheads.'

'Okay,' she agreed brightly. 'But you know if they're such dickheads, then why do you hang out with them?'

'Force of habit,' Nelkir told her as they sat at another table.

Thaena took one bite of the stew and then looked up with a delighted expression. _It's like she's too happy for the world, _Nelkir thought fondly.

'This is great, isn't it?'

Solitude frowned, surprised. 'Yeah, it is. The others hate it though.'

'Then they're stupid,' she decided simply. Nelkir just stared at her, intoxicated by her personality. 'Though,' she said uncertainly, holding out what looked suspiciously like a part of a rabbit foot; 'someone could have told him to not use the _whole _rabbit.' She placed it delicately to the side, and Nelkir swept it into Marco, who was doing a bad attempt at trying to walk by inconspicuously. It hit him and he let out a yelp. Nelkir smiled thinly at the noise as he continued to look at Thaena.

'But to be fair, they are sweet, for dickheads,' she added.

'Yeah, they're really sweet. Explains why Carrion woke up with a bug infested pillow yesterday,' he said dryly.

'Playful, then.' Thaena shrugged and pushed back the stew, towards Nelkir. 'Here, bear mountain, finish this off.'

Solitude sighed, considering if he should actually eat it, and then he felt a presence next to him. It was Arras.

'Looks like Nelkir has himself a girlfriend,' he taunted lightly.

'You think we're together?' Thaena asked, looking really sweet as she did so. The way she eyed Nelkir suggested that it couldn't have been the worse thing in the world, which knocked him back. _She likes me? _This was new.

Arras nodded. 'You make a sweet couple,' he said kindly. 'Right, Nelkir?'

'Piss off, Arras,' he growled. The thief eyed him with an amused expression, but didn't move. Thaena glanced between them with a concerned look. 'You know, I think I'm done here. See you later, Nelkir. Arras.' She left them alone, and the Bastard watched her go with a sinking feeling.

'Not that good looking if you ask me, Solitude. But I guess we have to put up with what we're left with.'

Nelkir's anger rose suddenly, fierce and defensive. 'She's too good for you anyway.' _Don't attack him, _the Voice said. _You'll regret it. _Solitude ignored it.

'Easy, Solitude. We all know there's only one reason a guy goes for that.' Nelkir gave him a furious stare, his warning. His fists began to clench. 'For an easy fuc-'

The Bastard leapt at him, driving him into the ground. Arras took a blow to the jaw, but managed to throw Nelkir off of him before another could land. By now the rest of the Blades and recruits in the room had gathered around, placing bets and shouting out words of encouragement. Nelkir stood crouched, letting his instincts take over, and faced off against Arras, who was circling warily. He leapt forward and Solitude threw him to the floor, before stamping down with his foot. Arras caught it and brought Nelkir crashing to the stone tiles in a blast of pain, and then grappled him, pulling Solitude up. Suddenly, he was yanked back by another man. Nelkir felt a hand on his shoulder as well, separating them. The Bastard was shoved aside, and two Blades moved between them.

'What the hell is this, eh?'

'A fight,' Nelkir replied icily.

'Looks like you're coming with us then.' The man smiled, as if he liked nothing better, and they were dragged out.

**To be fair, Esbern wasn't **the sharpest mind at the best of times, but after listening to a schoolboy fight, he had just about dozed off, Nelkir noticed with some degree of alarm. He kept his thoughts to himself, but couldn't help but share Arras' veiled taunt. Esbern looked half dead as he sat there, watching them.

'My lord?' Nelkir asked carefully.

Esbern jerked up, and then frowned on seeing the Bastard. His eyes flickered to Arras. 'You can leave, but restrain yourself next time.' The other Nord nodded, shooting Nelkir a smug grin as Esbern called Solitude back. 'I have things to discuss with you, Nelkir.'

The Bastard moved forward sullenly to a seat and sat, watching him darkly. Esbern didn't look fazed by it though. 'What was that?'

Nelkir shrugged. 'What you saw, my lord.'

'Uh huh.' He leaned forward, his brown eyes keen. 'I think it was a little more than that, wasn't it?'

Nelkir gritted his jaw. 'You don't need to concern yourself with it,' he said.

'I think as Master of the Blades, everything falls under my concern, wouldn't you agree?' Nelkir didn't answer and Esbern shifted in his seat. 'That's what I expected.' He paused, before continuing. 'Whatever your reasons, Nelkir, I think it has fallen down to me to teach you a lesson you will not get from anyone else here. One day, you will be a leader.' His blunt certainty when he said this stunned Nelkir; no one had even really acknowledged his existence, let alone expected anything from him. It was a strange feeling. _The same feeling as he had felt escaping the Forsworn. _

'A leader must not hold grudges,' Esbern said. 'It can often lead to their ruin.'  
'Or spur them on,' Nelkir countered.  
'Rarely,' Esbern conceded. '  
'Tell me, my lord. Which leader has never held a grudge?'  
Esbern frowned. 'That's not the point. I think you underestimate human nature, my boy.'  
'I'm not your boy,' he said coldly. 'And I think you put too much faith in it, my lord. _That_ also destroys men.'  
Esbern watched him with carefully. 'Trust is not to be given lightly, but if you trust no one, you might as well be dead.'  
'Trust is too heavy a price, Esbern. I'm not prepared to pay it because I know what happens when you lose it.'  
'You remind me of someone, Nelkir,' Esbern decided. 'Bastards are often the same, I think.'  
Solitude's blood went cold. He leaned back, almost disbelievingly. 'How do you know?'  
The other Nord leaned forward, smiling. 'You can hide your emotions, but not your being. I've studied the way you sit, and how to treat your friends. You keep them at arms length normally.' Nelkir got ready to stand, not prepared for another lecture, his face stony, but Esbern held out an imploring hand. 'They also look to you like a leader. Your detachment is useful; it seems to unwittingly increase your authority. You've heard the phrase that bastards are the real men?' Nelkir nodded, Jon Stormcloak flashing through his mind. 'Think about that, as all the things I ever say to you. You may leave, Nelkir.'  
The Bastard nodded and exited, suddenly numb. Esbern always seemed to know exactly how to connect to him. With a start, Nelkir realised he was actually coming to respect the crazy old man. _Maybe there really is more to him than meets the eye?_  
Nelkir shifted uneasily as he boded on these new revelations, as he returned to the dining hall. Afternoon duties would begin soon, but he was relieved to see his friends still at the table, talking. They were arguing actually, and Nelkir frowned. He felt the presence of many eyes on him, and glanced around uneasily. Everyone was staring at him and whispering. He ignored them and made his ways over to his friends. They had fallen silent on his approach.  
'What's going on?' Nelkir asked, uncertainty rising in his gut. _Be prepared_, the Voice whispered.  
'Is it true?' Farman asked.  
'What is?' Nelkir said uneasily. The eyes were still watching him.  
'That you're a, you know, a-'  
'Bastard.'

Nelkir turned, cold fear soaking into his bones. Arras stood, watching him with a smug smile. 'You're a bastard, Nelkir White.' Solitude flinched.  
Nelkir forced a smile. 'Proof, Arras?'  
'Plenty. I suspected it for a while. I thought I recognised you in the cart, but I couldn't challenge you during our escape. And then you were a hero. But now,' he stepped back, spreading his arms. 'You're just one of us, aren't you? Worse, you're a king's bastard.'  
Nelkir remained silent, glancing around. That explained the argument his friends were having; _it had been about me_, he thought with a sinking feeling. He forced his face to go blank, so no one could see what he was feeling; cold loss, as if something had just slipped from his grasp.  
'Test the accent,' Arras continued. 'It's too highborn. The skin; fair, a noble colour. His hair is darker now, but it was golden when we left, like the King's used to be.' Nelkir knew that last bit was true; it had darkened under the mountain to a solid blond. 'And, I know he's not from Solitude.' Arras moved aside, revealing Thaena, who looked stunned, and sad. 'She told me that she had never seen Nelkir before. He, who lived there his whole life, was never seen by anybody who _actually_ lived there. It's very simple, isn't it?' He turned to Nelkir; 'Isn't it, Bastard?'

White didn't need to hear any more. His friends were staring at him, and they weren't even Nords! He left the room, bursting out the door. The eyes followed him and he turned a corner, just to fall against the wall. Tears threatened to appear, but Nelkir hardened his heart; he had been through worse. Even so, it had been a cruel trick of the Gods to hang him like this. Jon Stormcloak had never believed in any gods, or so he'd heard. Now he knew why.

'Nelkir.' The Bastard turned to see Thaena, and watched her with a cool, grey-blue stare, drawing himself up so he towered over her.

'What?'

She moved forward, looking deeply upset, but White didn't give a damn. He had known none of it would last, but he had wanted longer. 'I never meant for that. Arras asked about you, and I just told him what I told you. If I'd known…'

'It doesn't matter, does it?' Nelkir growled. 'Not now. Just fuck off, Thaena. I'm done with you.'

She looked hurt, and stepped back, before becoming defiant. 'Fine,' she snapped. Thaena left with another word, to be replaced by Marco.

'What is this?' Nelkir snapped. 'An apology committee. Just go,' he snarled, but Marco didn't move.

'You're a bastard?' White nodded, staring at the ground furiously. 'I don't care, you know,' Marco continued.

'Then why did you just ask me if I was a bastard?'

'Nelkir, come on. That doesn't mean-'

'Anything, right? I've heard that enough.' His face tightened. 'Just leave.' The Imperial looked at him, and nodded, about to go before he turned back. 'It doesn't have to be this way. You don't have to alienate yourself, or hide your emotions.'

Nelkir ignored him, and he left, leaving the Bastard with burning hatred of Arras. True fury; it raced up his bones, and through his fingers. It had ruined his chance. Stormcloak had never predicted this, had he? Nelkir felt strong though. His fists clenched and shook. There was only one thing he had left now; Nelkir was going to go to that contest of arms and he was going to kill Arras, blade to blade.

**Intense stuff. I'm looking forward to writing his next chapter. **


	47. Magic Games

**Sorry this one took so long to come out. Hopefully the next one should be quicker. Another Dragonblood chapter will be out as well, maybe tomorrow. **

**The thanks; To ScarletMaiden1, thanks for all the Favourites and Followers for pretty much all my work! To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I think 'vessel' is a little too far. Nelkir isn't a vessel for the voice. It's providing him aid. The voice has a plan, and a lot of it does rest on Nelkir. Nope, Frothar will be King; inheritance is the guarantee, I thought. It's just a formality. In any case, they can't hold a moot now; Frothar will become King by default, HOWEVER, Thongvor could claim the title, as no one really has it anymore. As you can imagine, this will be important later. To DarthTexas, thanks for the review! Alsfur might, or might not, be Dragonborn. Ideally, he needs the Thu'um if he is to claim that title, but you'll see. (In any case, it will all be explained later in depth.) To TheLlama123, thanks for Following me, Favouriting me and following this story! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Yep, he hates Arras. Cool! I'm glad you like Nelkir (he's one of my favourite characters). Molag Bal is not in this (he will be in my next story) and I can't say anything about their roles at the moment. Thanks to everyone! **

**Okay, the next chapter will be out much quicker. That's my promise to you. **

**Assur Winter**

**Assur Winter was in the **librarywhen they came. Two apprentices burst through the doors in a panic, breathing heavily. Winter looked up, noting their wild eyes as they stared around at the few mages present.

'He's coming!'

'Speak plain!' the Orc Librarian snapped.

'Jarl Winter. He's returning, and heading for the college. The message says he will burn us to the ground.'

The mages exchanged uneasy glances, and even Urag looked uncomfortable. 'Why does he make such threats?'

'He blames us for taking his heir. It seems they lost the major battles in the south, and he's fleeing in a rage,' one of the mages explained before rushing out to inform others. The Orc turned to Assur, who had come to stand by him to watch the mages.

'See what's going on. I think you're the only one who can fix this.'

'As usual,' Assur muttered, before gesturing to the apprentice to show him the way to the trouble. The messenger took him from the college and out into the town. The people were all crowded together, shouting and screaming. When they saw Assur they rushed for him, babbling incoherently.

'One at a time,' he barked as he strode through them. His hands itched; magic would disperse them quickly enough.

'Assur.' It was Dagur, the innkeeper. 'What's going on? Your father is apparently returning at the head of a armed host.'

'So I've heard. He means to burn the college and take me away,' Assur replied dryly.

'Will you turn yourself in?' Winter looked down. _Why should I? What would Father do to me? _'What about Birna?' the Innkeeper continued. 'When he finds out that she's pregnant with your child…' he trailed off, his face white.

Assur frowned, cold fear surging through him. He had almost forgotten Birna… 'No, I won't let him touch her,' he said resolutely.

'Should we fight back then?'

'Let me go talk to my Steward,' Assur said impatiently. He was frustrated now; the conversation had only elevated his fears. Winter pushed past the people, making for the longhouse. Since his meeting with Malur, Assur had begun to take control of the town, in-between his research at the college and every night, without fail, he returned to Birna, who had moved into the longhouse. Things were changing in Winterhold, and no doubt his father would hardly recognise it when he returned, but Assur was done worrying about what he thought.

It was a struggle to reach the longhouse; the people were swarming everywhere, but eventually the guards saw him and rushed forward, clearing a path with brutal force. Assur managed to get into the longhouse and slammed shut the door, breathing heavily. _Shit. This is worse than I thought. _

Winter looked around, spotting Malur by the throne, watching the door anxiously. He looked relieved to see the Nord.

'Assur! Thank the gods.' He moved forward and hugged him suddenly, which made Assur somewhat uncomfortable. Winter pushed him off gently and stepped back.

'What's going on out there?'

The Dark Elf rubbed the back of his neck. 'I assume you've heard about your father's return?'

'Yes, but he was never that bad,' Assur argued. 'It's not like he's a barbarian warlord.'

'Well,' Malur licked his lips; 'he's not far off now.'

'All because I dared to learn magic,' Winter reflected bitterly. 'It's not fair. I can do what I want.'

'Not under Korir,' Malur shrugged. He saw Assur's face and became serious. 'I don't know what to do,' he admitted.

'Can't I make some truce with him?'

'It's possible, but you already know he's volatile. He _hates _magic. It might not work.'

Assur moved to the throne and sat, resting his head in his hands. 'This is stupid. He's my goddamn father!' he barked angrily. 'It's not like he's going to massacre the entire village.' Malur looked uncomfortable as he stood there.

'He'll want to make an example.'

'Then what shall we do?'

'We need to protect your people, first and foremost,' Malur said.

'Right. Of course,' Assur agreed. 'But where? We have no castle.'

'What about the college?' They both turned to see Birna there, standing by the doorway. A thin trail of hope raced up Assur before he dismissed the idea. He didn't say anything though to dissuade her, and put his head back in his hands. 'Why not? The college could actually work, couldn't it? It has one entrance, stone walls and a bridge,' she continued. Malur gave Assur an approving look.

'The mages will never let us in,' Winter told her brusquely. 'Don't even think about it.'

Birna ignored him though, moving closer. 'Assur, you command some respect there. Surely the Archmage will see our need.'

Assur eyed her, before pointing out the obvious. 'This great threat we are running from is my _father_.' He stood, desperate to make them see the truth. 'My father!' _Or maybe I'm just trying to convince myself. _

'With a hundred men at his back,' Malur pointed out.

'Oh, no matter what. He's my _blood_,' Assur stressed almost plaintively. 'He won't hurt me.'

'But what about the people?' Birna asked him. 'What about me?'

Assur's heart jerked painfully. She was right. 'Magic,' he said. 'I could use it to protect us.' His hands itched at the thought; it would be glorious.

'No,' she said bluntly. 'That won't solve anything.'

'I can destroy him, Birna!' Assur said excitedly, before realising what he had actually just thought. They were staring at him in shock, and Winter backed away, guilt rising up through him. 'I'll talk to the Archmage,' he stuttered, and then burst out without another word. The people were still outside, but Assur paid them no attention as he wrestled with his murderous thoughts, vaguely disturbed by them. Winter reached the bridge leading to the college and the people melted away, afraid of the magic surrounding the stonework.

Assur made his way up quickly; the Archmage was dangerous and powerful. Winter knew that if he moved too slowly, his resolve would leave him, so he stepped quickly, making his way into the Hall of Elements. The stone surrounded him, compressing him in, trapping him. Assur took a deep breath; he had never realised that he actually feared the Archmage so much. But it made sense; his power was almost unrivalled throughout Tamriel, and he was strict at the best of times. _He's no killer though; what could actually happen?_

Assur was lost in his thoughts as the shape collided with him, knocking him back. Winter almost lost his balance on the stairs, but he held it, steadying himself against the wall. He looked up to see Onmund and Brelyna watching him wearily from the steps above. _She must have told him about our last meeting,_ Assur reflected angrily. _He'll have the wrong impression now._

'Students,' he said quietly, trying to move past them, but Onmund caught his arm. Assur turned with a spark of anger, but their faces were made up of concern and another shot of guilt racked his body. 'What?'

'We heard about your father's return,' Onmund started. 'We're sorry.'

'Why?' Assur snapped, more sharply than he had intended. 'He's my father, not a murderer.' _Is that true though? _

'Not the way you told it,' Onmund joked. The laughter withered when he saw Assur's face.

'We just want to make sure that you're okay,' Brelyna said softly. Assur was touched by their concern, especially after what he had said to the Dark Elf earlier.

He swallowed. 'I'm good. I was going to see the Archmage about shelter for the village in here.'

Brelyna moved forward. 'That's great! Do you want us to come?'

Assur brushed her off. 'No, no, I'm fine.' He was about to turn away, but the he stopped, their last conversation ringing in his mind. 'Brelyna… I'm sorry.' He swept up the stairs without waiting for her reaction, finally coming to the top. Feelings of regret were swallowing him now, but he crushed them ruthlessly. No one deserved his apology.

The door was solid, made of wood. Behind it resided one of the most powerful mages in the world. Assur steadied his breath and pushed it open carefully, before thrusting it wide with renewed confidence. The Nord stepped in, closing the door behind him and then looked around. It was a very strange office: in the centre was a large flower display, covered by an open temple with stone pillars. Around the edges were benches and areas for, presumably, magic practice. Doors led to off to other places, but Assur ignored those. Sitting on one of the benches was the Archmage.

He was another Dark Elf, with dark blue skin, and a long face. His head was covered by a hood, but strands of grey fell across his brow. He had a long, thin body, and dark eyes. The sight of him made Assur's skin stand on end, humming with energy, and Winter almost took a step back, awed for an unexplainable reason.

'Archmage?'

His head snapped up, his eyes alive with light. 'Yes.'

'Have you heard the news?' the Nord began uncertainly.

'No. I don't bother with that.' He got up and started walking to the flower display. Assur followed him.

'Jarl Winter is returning at the head of a host of men. He hopes to capture me, and burn down the college.'

'Nothing he hasn't tried to do before,' the Archmage said nonchalantly.

That stopped Assur for a second. 'Wait, what? He's done this before?'

'Tried,' the Archmage stressed. 'He failed.'

'Why?'

The Dark Elf turned to him, interest in his flowers replaced by a new oddity. 'You don't know?'

'No,' Assur said, curious. He stepped closer slowly.

The Archmage turned back to his flowers, and started tending them. 'It was after your father found out.'

'Found out what?' Assur asked.

The Archmage turned around in surprise again, raising his eyebrows. 'You really don't know?'

'Tell me!' Winter stated forcefully.

'Apparently your father is coming back, Scholar,' he said sharply. 'Ask him.'

'He is going to kill us,' Assur growled, grabbing the Dark Elf's shoulder.

The Archmage looked around slowly. 'I cannot help them. To open the doors would mean our deaths when he storms the college.'

'Then fight!'

The Dark Elf pushed Assur off of him. 'We are not warriors. I have to think about the students I promised to protect.'

'But you're bloody mages! You can use magic.'

The Archmage looked suddenly scared. 'I cannot.'

'Why not?'

'Surely you know the consequences of magic by now, do you not?'

Assur thought back to the mood swings, and the power. All of it, and licked his lips. 'There are none.'

'Then you are foolish.'

'Maybe I'm more powerful than you. Maybe I can control it,' he declared arrogantly.

'Then you are a bigger fool than your father,' the Archmage told him.

Assur stepped back, and pushed up his sleeves. His body was humming now, and he could feel the magic pulsing in his veins. 'You won't help us?'

'I can't, Assur. My hands are tied. I'm sorry.'

Winter's anger exploded. Not out of concern for his villager's plight, but a sudden desire to prove himself. The need to pummel this old man into the ground was all consuming for insulting him, and the magic was urging him on. _I can do it. _With a smile, Assur jerked up his hands and white light exploded from them, rushing towards the Archmage with crackling energy. The loss of energy was negligible, as Assur found to his delight.

The Dark Elf's face turned deadly stony. His mouth tightened and his eyes burned. With a flick of his wrist he redirected the blast of force, which flew into a part of the mini temple, smashing one of the pillars. Dismayed by the ease with which he had deflected his attack, Assur stepped back and readied himself for battle. The Archmage didn't do anything though.

'Are you sure you want to do this, Assur?'

The reckless confidence was still humming through him, corrupting his senses, and he nodded. The Archmage pursed his lips, hesitated, and then let out a cry, swinging his arm. Icy shards, sharp as knives, leapt forward and Assur threw himself to the side, into the cover of a half submerged pillar, one of the many that lined the curved wall of the Dark Elf's study.

Assur caught his breath but before he could do anything, a force hit the pillar, like his own, and crushed it, throwing Winter back. Pain rocketed through his body as he rolled across the ground, and spat out blood. The Archmage was set to kill now, and he moved forward swiftly, his hands raised decisively. Assur's fear rose, overwhelming him and he instinctively threw up his hands in a panic. Red fire burst from them, tinged with white, and leapt at the Archmage who looked stunned, and quickly shielded himself. It wasn't enough though, and he fell back, trying to avoid the heat. With an angry growl, he threw out an icy wind that pushed back Assur's fire.

Winter, meanwhile, was stunned by what he was doing. He stood slowly, wondering at the fire. He had never created anything this big in its offensive power. Nothing this _powerful._ It was quickly making him cold, frozen even, but Assur suddenly knew what to do. With a flick of his mind he threw his thoughts across the room, and it happened instantly. Almost imperceptibly, the air began to lose heat, and Assur laughed, his feelings of joy and triumph rushing through him.

The Archmage looked scared, as sweat began to pour down his face. Assur smiled and formed a fist, maintaining the fire with his other hand, and jerked it into the Archmage. One of the stone pillars was ripped off its base and flew into the Dark Elf, who ducked, his frost dissipating into a light mist. He tried to scrabble to his feet, as the temple fell due to loss of structural support.

Assur directed his fire so it surrounded the Archmage in a hellish display of power and closed his free fist. The temple, even as it was falling, crumpled into shards and then Winter directed them into the Archmage. _Now, it ends. _

Amazingly, the Dark Elf managed to throw them aside and leapt forward from the flames, surrounded in frost. With a roar he rushed forward, a pale blade forming into his fist. The Archmage briefly shuddered, and let out a cry as the magic took support from the only hard structure in his body; his bones. Assur, on the other hand was not so limited. A pale shield rushed over his arm, and he took the strength from the crumpled stone temple, which began to turn to dust as it lost all its hardness. The shield caught the blade easily; neither of them were real fighters. The Archmage foolishly raised his pale sword with novice skill, high above his head, and Assur pushed the shield forward. It broke on impact, into a burst of light that threw the Archmage back. Deftly, Winter raised his hand, catching him with telekinesis in mid air. He laughed again, surprised at all these new abilities and threw the Archmage to the ground, where his arms broke. _Sustaining the pale sword would have left his bones weak for an hour of so. Hitting the stone floor was too much pressure,_ Assur thought darkly.

Winter moved forward and knelt next to the Dark Elf, ignoring his rasping breaths. 'You shouldn't have challenged me.'

'You're a monster,' the Archmage spat.

That accusation prickled Assur. 'I'm just prepared to do what I need to. Something you obviously weren't open to. You deserved this.'

'If I deserve this,' the Archmage grinned; 'then I will see you in oblivion.'

That made Assur angry. 'Fine.' With a flick of his hand magic snapped the Archmage's neck, and he fell silent. Winter stood, straightened his robes, and left the room.

**Magic battle! I hope you guys enjoyed that, even if Assur Is becoming evil, at least he's powerful, right? Also, see how weak a very powerful mage was against him? Assur is a different beast, magically, in my story. Anyway, please review! **


	48. An Unexpected Conversation

**See, this one was out much quicker. It was pretty fun to write as well. Back to Idgrod next, and then Alsfur and Ralof will return. **

**The thanks; to Foacir, thanks for the review! Well, Assur is crazy and powerful, but you'll see what happens with the college. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Could he destroy Winterhold's army? We'll see. I agree, the Archmage is likely not top dog, but he's up there and Assur is just becoming more and more powerful. What makes him so powerful? You'll see. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! It was a great idea, so good job on that. It had really defined Assur's chapters. I don't think you're weird. The staff etc will have no part in this story. The Blades will have a part (Nelkir is with them right now.) Sorry, it wasn't a dream. Savos is dead. Alsfur is coming up next next chapter. Thanks everyone for the reviews and stuff! **

**This is it. I hope you like it. Please review! **

**Carl Thorek Silver-Blood **

**The camp was close. Carl **Thorek Silver-Blood could see it now, a huge maze of tents that sprawled across the countryside. He took a second to rest, sitting up on his horse. His armour was in the saddlebags; it hadn't taken long to collect his things and load it onto the best horse he could find, which was Balgruuf's incidentally. _Well, the old Nord isn't likely to need it anymore._

Thorek was dressed back into his grey coat, his sword hanging at his side. He had to admit, during his stint as Lord Housecarl, he had forgotten just how natural, how _good_, it felt to be dressed as he was. As he was meant to be; a Silver-Blood of the Reach. Thorek had assumed that being the Lord Housecarl would be everything he had hoped for, but in that regard it had been fatally disappointing. Looking back on it now, some part of Thorek was pleased the King had been killed, but that was only a small feeling. Mostly, he was consumed by rage. It had been his duty! The one thing had been assigned to do. In addition, Thorek knew now he could have stopped it. When he felt that girl's arm, presumably the women who had killed Balgruuf, he should have known that she wasn't what she had been pretending to be. Thorek cursed himself for that, but he wasn't about to stand on ceremony for the old king. It had been made painfully clear that he was dead now, and it was all Thorek's fault.

Turning his attention to the camp, Silver-Blood felt a thrill of anticipation. _What will Father say? Will he be pleased to see me? _Strangely, Thorek felt no fear at the prospect of rejection; he could live in other ways. Rather, he was curious to see what his father would do. _I suppose I'm going to find out if he really loves me, _Thorek reflected dryly. He shrugged to himself, before noticing the patrol of men passing below him, all in formation and dressed in the Silver-Blood silvery grey. He was going to be seen before long; Father was always meticulous in his scouting.

'Captain!' He kicked his horse into a trot and made his way up to them. Some loosed their weapons, but Thorek ignored them, instead focusing on their pasty leader.

'Tell me who you?' the Nord demanded, not nicely.

'Tell that monster to get off your face, and maybe I'll answer your question.'

His face turned pink. 'I don't take that from little shits like you.'

Thorek pushed back his hair. 'Nor do I. Be a good, carl I assume, and take me to my father.' He looked at the man, and smiled good-naturedly.

The Carl nodded. 'Why do I care who your father is?'

'Because he pays you.'

The man frowned, and his eyes narrowed. 'Be plain.'

'Hard, for someone as good looking as myself.' No one laughed and Thorek smiled thinly. 'I trust you know of Thongvor Silver-Blood. I am his son.'

This time, the man did laugh. 'I heard he was old Balgruuf's Housecarl.'

'The King's dead,' Thorek snapped angrily. 'And if we don't get moving soon, you'll be joining him.' His hand went to his sword but the man ignored that, shocked as he processed this news.

'Follow me.' He turned his horse and led his company towards the camp. It was a short enough ride before they were surrounded by the noise and smoke. It slammed against Thorek's ears and he had to uncomfortably manoeuvre his way through the soldiers pushing and shoving. They passed training rings, horses, carts, armourers, and all manner of prostitutes, but the Carl managed to ignore them as they wound their way through the different colours, each representing one Thane or another. Naturally, like most Nordic army camps, Father's tent resided in the middle, where it commanded attention, and was relatively safe should the camp be breached by an attack. They passed through the gates fairly easily, until they reached the final compound, consisting of the Jarl's tent, and his captains, surrounded by a wooden wall. The men on watch, Father's personal guard, looked wary, and alert. When they recognised Thorek though, they stifled laughs. Silver-Blood's anger began to prick up and he gave them a burning stare. _I hate being laughed at. _He made a mental note of the men's faces, should he need to return, and dismounted, shoving past them while ignoring the Carl who tried to call him back.

The tent itself was guarded by two men, but they peeled back when they recognised the Jarl's son, despite the obvious fact that he had been the King's Housecarl a week ago, and to their knowledge still was. _Men are cowed easily by noble blood, _Thorek thought to himself. He made his way through the main tent, and into a side part, where Father held his war councils. His son knew him well, it seemed; he was there alone, save some men-at-arms who stepped forward to intercept Thorek.

Seeing Father again made his son's breath stop a little. It was an unexplained effect with Thongvor Silver-Blood, as he sat there, scribbling his orders for the army. He didn't look much different, maybe slightly leaner, and the hair at his sides was a little thicker, a salt and peppery shade. Thorek pushed by his own hair with one hand, and crossed his arms. The men moved aside as they recognised him, and he smiled.

'Hello, Father.'

Thongvor Silver-Blood snapped up, surprise flashing across his face. He frowned, and their last conversation suddenly pushed itself to the forefront of Thorek's mind, along with a deep set anxiety, but to his utter astonishment, Thongvor rose and moved to Thorek, grasping his arm before bringing him into a hug. His son stood stunned, before putting a hand around Father's back. Thongvor pulled away and studied him. They were of height.

'What are you doing here?' His voice was suspicious, and unusually wary.

Thorek was still too surprised. He said the only thing he could. 'Can we sit?'

Father waved at hand at a chair near his place at the head of the rectangular table, all emotion hidden now, and sat himself, leaning forward with interest. His grey eyes were still cloaked with doubt though. Thorek took a seat beside him and looked around quickly, at the guards. Thongvor sensed his motioned to them. They left the room silently.

'So?' he prompted. He hide any anger, or delight, at his son's return well.

Thorek nodded, and leaned back, pushing away his mistrust of the whole situation. 'The King is dead.'

Father didn't look shocked. Instead he put his hands together. 'I expected as much.'

That surprised Thorek yet again. 'What do you mean?'

'I wasn't confident of Balgruuf's chances without Jon Stormcloak. It seemed I was right.' He poured some wine from a jug beside him. 'Who did it?'

'I don't know,' Thorek admitted sullenly. The memories came back sharply.

'Then you did make a poor Housecarl,' he said sharply, which stung his son. Clearly, things were not daises and sweetrolls yet.

'They were trained, and precise,' he argued. 'I couldn't have done any better.'

Father watched him with a calculating stare before nodding. 'I believe you,' he said. Thorek was taken aback by his trust, but subdued it quickly.

'Should we investigate them?' he asked.

Thongvor shook his head. 'I think not. They will surface again, but for now, they do not seem to be opposing us.'

'Maybe not, but I still feel they are dangerous.'

'A good feeling; we shouldn't ignore them completely, but for now I have more pressing matters.' He turned back to his paperwork, but looked up after only a few seconds. Thorek knew he had been waiting to ask this since he arrived. 'You are no longer the King's Housecarl? You have been released?'

'Barely,' Thorek replied sourly. 'I've been saddled with the oath.'

Father nodded. 'I expected as much. It only concerns me as far as this; will it interfere with your duties?'

'My duties?' Thorek echoed cautiously. He didn't know what to expect.

'As my Thegn.' Silver-Blood didn't think he could take any more surprises, but this one slammed into him with eye-opening force.

'What?'

Father looked into Thorek's eyes, his own displaying no emotion. 'I said what I meant.' He left the rest in the air; it was up to Thorek now. He could abandon his past loyalties, to Balgruuf, to the crown, to Whiterun, and return as his Father's heir, one day to be Jarl of Markarth. Or he could take the honourable route, and leave. Hunt down those responsible for Balgruuf's death, his king, and fulfil his oath to death if need be. Thorek knew he might return some day to take up his titles, but the oath instructed him to hunt the killers relentlessly. Thorek thought about Idgrod, and how she had tried to teach him chivalry, and honour. _But I already know everything there is about honour. Everything that needs to be known. The rest is tradition. _

'Balgruuf is dead. That's all there is to it,' Thorek said, leaning back and smiling lazily. He felt better already.

Thongvor looked mildly disturbed though at his casual dismissal of his duties, which irritated his son. 'Fine. Let's test your loyalty.' He put his cup to one side and called for one of the guards. Thorek waited with increased interest, and unease, as he issued a quick order and a scribe entered. Father stood, motioning for his son to do the same, and moved to a war map, placed at the side of the tent. 'I assume Balgruuf trusted you with his plans.'

'Yes,' Thorek agreed. 'He did. But remember, until the moot, Prince Regent Frothar sits the throne. He has the entire Kingdom at his command.'

'And what's that now?' Father scoffed. 'Balgruuf lost Skyrim. Now,' he sighed, his face becoming wistful; 'now, we're little more than city states fighting for dominance.'

'What I meant,' Thorek insisted; 'is that now he rules, he may well change Balgruuf's plans.'

Father nodded. 'He might. But Whiterun remains in the same position.'

'You mean to attack the capital?' Thorek asked, raising his eyebrows. It had repulsed many enemies, and would likely do the same now. 'Ulfric Stormcloak broke his army against those walls.'

'Against Jon Stormcloak's thu'um, you mean,' Father countered. He studied Thorek in his calculating way before turning back to the map. 'You're right, of course. No, I never intended to attack Whiterun.' He smiled, a grin so much like Thorek's own, with flashing white teeth. It disturbed his son to see that; when he smiled, plans, lethal plans, were afoot. 'You know where Jarl Winter is?' It sounded rhetorical.

Thorek shook his head. 'He left three-quarters of his men at Whiterun. The rest he fled with.'

'To Winterhold,' Father told him. He traced the path northward with his finger across the map. 'Many miles. Even if he wanted to continue this war, we can act without his interference. I hear some disturbing things from Winterhold, but we'll deal with that later.' He moved his finger eastwards, to Morthal. Thorek saw a flash of Idgrod, and then remembered his oath, and her words. Father's voice broke the thoughts thankfully. 'We don't need to worry about Morthal. It's always had more pride than strength, and even that is poor. In any case,' his finger raced back to the centre of the map, to Whiterun; 'Jarl Idgrod's men are there under her husband's command.' He looked at Thorek. 'The man is no fighter. A devoted steward I'm sure, but they don't win wars. And so,' he moved to a spot near Windhelm, on the road that led there through mountains and hills; 'we have the last piece on the board.'

'Alsfur Stormcloak,' Thorek muttered. He had dismissed the boy before. He hoped his prediction had been right.

'_Jarl_ Alsfur Stormcloak,' Father corrected him. 'He commands all the power of Windhelm.'

'A green boy.'

'Not so green as you think,' Father said. 'He took Fort Amol.'

'Easily. He had many more men and was fighting a bandit horde.'

Thongvor shrugged. 'Regardless, he holds the only remaining resistance. With his defeat, we can end this war, and concentrate on the real threat. The Thalmor.' The room seemed to grow darker with those words, and Thorek's face became hard as he thought about the elves. 'As I suspected, the Legions were defeated on the field. They are quickly retreating to the Imperial City. The Bretons have rallied, and are moving swiftly to aid them. It's a waste of time,' he said angrily. 'They cannot stand against them.'

'What says that we can then?' Thorek asked shrewdly.

Father shook his head. 'We will have to trust on an alliance with the Dark Elves and the Redguards. We can use Skyrim itself against them. Not everything is lost.'

'Just the Empire,' Thorek noted.

'It would appear that way.' He moved his finger back to Alsfur's supposed spot, and tapped it. 'I mean to crush the boy Stormcloak here.'

Thorek frowned, noticing a clearer spot nearer to their position. 'Why attack as he passes through the mountains? Why not now?'

Thongvor looked faintly irritated. 'The peace pact I made. It lasts a week more.'

'Peace pact.' Thorek laughed. 'This is a fucking war. Who gives a shit about some peace pact you made for a dead man.'

'That "dead man" was Jon Stormcloak!' Thongvor bellowed furiously. 'You will learn some respect for his death, and legacy, or you have no place here. I respect my oaths, unlike others.'

Thorek frowned, hurt and embarrassed. Father made no move to soften any of his words, or actions after. His son hoped that his feelings weren't showing on his face; he didn't want to imagine the look of disgust he would see on Father's face. 'I understand,' he said quietly, feeling like a child.

Father nodded, and returned to his plans. 'This is the soonest we can intercept him. I meant to crush his forces between us, as he passes through the narrow mountain valley.' His gaze returned to Thorek. 'I want you to lead the attack that stops him from moving forward. I will command the men that crush him from the back.'

'Of course, Father,' Thorek agreed, pleased to be given such an important responsibility, and to be moving on from Father's anger. Things were going far better, all in all, than he had expected.

'Good. Now, we are having guests.'

'The captains?' Thorek asked, moving back to his seat by Father at the long table. Already servants were dressing it up for dinner.

'No, the men we captured in the last battle.'

'Ah.' Thorek was a little uncomfortable as to why Father was feasting his enemies, but he dare not question him again, after his last outburst. 'That battle really fucked up my life, you know.'

Father smiled. 'I hoped it would. If I'm honest,' he said as he sat down at the head; 'I wasn't expecting such a stupid move from Aenar Kingsblood. But he needed to protect the ford. If he had stopped me, we might be in different places right now. It was gallant, but foolish.' He fell silent as the prisoners came in. They had been dressed smartly, and looked clean enough. In fact, Thorek was surprised by how healthy they appeared.

Father held out a hand. 'Carl Aenar Kingsblood, Protector of Solitude. How is Elisif, your wife?'

'Spare me the pleasantries, Silver-Blood,' he growled. 'We all know what this is.'

Thongvor shrugged. 'As you wish. Honour does not disappear in war, contrary to popular belief.' Thorek could have sworn he glanced at him when she said that. Aenar noticed the look, and his face turned black when he saw the younger Silver-Blood.

'Oathbreaker.' He lunged for Thorek, but a guard caught him, pulling him back. 'You've betrayed the King.'

'The King is dead. I was dismissed from the Wind-Shifter's service,' Thorek said sharply.

'Ha! So you go crawling back to daddy. Where is your honour?'

Silver-Blood was getting pissed off by all these challenges to his nobility. 'Where yours was when you left Whiterun alone!' he replied.

'Enough!' barked Father. 'Sit, Carl Aenar, or go back to your cell. I don't care which you choose.' Kingsblood sat, as his brother came through the entrance. Thane Areas Strong-Arm was a well built man, shorter than most Nords, with wavy hair. He was the eldest of the family, and ruled the town Stark as a Thane of Solitude. His brother had given up his name when he became Kingsblood, as was tradition. The weaker name was replaced, unless there were no other family members, in which the second child took the weaker name and became heir to all its respective properties. Strong-Arm had many heirs, so Elisif's children all remained Kingsblood, a far older and more powerful name.

'Thongvor Silver-Blood.' He noticed Thorek. 'And his whelp.'

'My son,' Father said pointedly. Areas looked between them, tapping his foot impatiently, before nodding.

'As you say.'

Thorek watched him icily as he moved to his seat. Some Thanes and notable Carls followed him in, but the son didn't bother to acknowledge them. He stared across the table at the two Strong-Arm brothers. The food was sparse, due to military rations, worse than at the King's camp, probably due to his Father's misguided sense of duty to his men. Still, there was enough meat to make Thorek happy, but he didn't like the company. Most of the prisoners had met him at one point, as Lord Housecarl, and they glowered at him as he sat by his Father's side. Thorek ignored them. Even so, the accusing glares prickled his pride, and he began to resent the dinner.

'So,' Aenar said suddenly. 'Let's talk about the King's death.' _Father must have just told him._ A babble of conversation burst out as those who didn't know started going through the stunned stages of a royal's death. Aenar turned to Thorek, smiling darkly. 'You were there at the time, or so I'd assume as Lord Housecarl. That, or you were busy fucking some whore.'

'Your wife actually,' Thorek smiled. 'Not that great in bed, surprisingly.'

'Little dick,' Aenar growled, his eyes burning. His hands curled into fits, but the guard put a hand on his shoulder.

'I didn't ask for the estimation for your size, Kingsblood.' Thorek said, grinning. 'Though she told me as much about you when I fucked her.'

Aenar tried to stand but a guard shoved him back into his chair. To Thorek's continued surprise, Father was smiling gently. _It seems I hardly knew the man at all. _

'What did happen with the King?' Areas asked, in a matter-of-fact tone, ignoring his brother's outburst.

Thorek turned to him. He respected those who treated him as an equal, without a jibe hidden behind their words. Silver-Blood swallowed, wondering how to proceed. 'The King was assassinated.' Everyone was watching him now, intently, even Father. Thorek just remembered that he hadn't heard the details either. 'Men in dark clothes came.' The women flashed through his mind. 'And a girl. She pretended to be a serving wench, so I let her pass. The others tried to kill me.'

Aenar scoffed. 'You couldn't survive an attempt on your life if the attackers were tied up.'

'I very nearly didn't,' Thorek snapped. 'I bled for the King, but obviously not enough. So, he's dead, and here I am, dismissed. You may view my presence here as unhonourable, but how much _honour _did Frothar have when he kicked me from the palace without a second glance. Ask yourselves that before you glare at me.' Thorek stood, glanced at Father, and left without a second glance.

**I hope that was good. Please review! **


	49. The King

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! He is working from a low base, that's for sure. Nope, Thongvor is not Dragon Master. He isn't Dragonborn, has no dragon blood, and the dragons would never except him. The 'title' can only be passed between fellow dovah. I'm glad you liked than noble blood line. I just threw that out, so it's cool that you liked it. Yep, if Alsfur is beaten, I guess we'll see how the process goes. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Sorry about your leg. I hope you recover soon! I'm glad you liked what Thorek said! (I hope his dialogue is good.) Thanks to everyone who reviewed and stuff! **

**Please review, and all that. **

**Idgrod Ravencrone II**

**Idgrod was thrown **down onto the cool marble floor, as the large, bronze doors shut closed behind her. She looked around, her breath shallow, taking in the dark banners and small fires flickering along the walls of the long hall. It had an ancient feel to it all, as if it had been built upon a groundwork far older than the hall Idgrod stood in now. Everything was quiet, but as she looked up she could see a dark shape at the end of the hall. It was large, but Idgrod could barely see a thing as she squinted into the distance. She started moving closer, drawn towards the object, glancing around as she did so. Everything felt so distance, and mysterious. Even the banners were dark and shaded; Idgrod couldn't glean anything about where she was, save that this place belonged to someone very powerful.

'Hello?' Idgrod called, rather feebly, as she stepped forward. Each time her foot hit the floor, the sound echoed throughout the hall, bouncing off the smooth walls. As she came closer to the shape at the far end, Idgrod realised it was a throne, strong and graceful. It looked smooth, and old, but like the rest of the room, mysterious. Ravencrone had no idea what it was made from, or what design it was embodying. It rested on a dias, not as high up as she would have expected, as if the man considered himself second to someone else. _That man could only be Akatosh himself though; _the room radiated control.

As Idgrod drew closer the man in the throne shifted. She was momentarily shocked, as he had appeared invisible before, but even now that Ravencrone had noticed him, he still seemed distant, like an unknown. His clothes were black smoke, and his face was covered in a hood. But from that, protruded a great, glimmering golden crown. It formed over his head as Idgrod got closer to him. Shining eyes glimmered from under his hood, eyes that were sympathetic, but hard and unyielding. _The eyes of a king… _

He, for he seemed to be a man, leaned back in his great throne and studied her. For her part, Idgrod stop still, her breathing ragged as she gazed up at him. Finally, he spoke.

'You don't know who I am, do you?'

Idgrod was momentarily lost for words, but she managed to regain her voice. 'No, I don't.'

'It's nothing personal, of course,' he continued, as if he had never asked her the question. 'Just something that is necessary.' That sent a chill down Idgrod's spine. 'You realise this of course.' She tried to shake her head, but the man cut her off again. 'I owe you this, I suppose.' He snapped his fingers and doors opened along the hall, doors that hadn't been there before.

Out of them each stepped a person. From the nearest, a Queen, shrouded, but majestic. Next to her, a Lord, then a Knight, cocky and forthright. A Peasant too, a Wizard, and a Builder. They blocked her escape, advancing. The man rose from his throne and descended from the small dias, until he reached the last step, where he stopped.

'Come here,' he commanded, not unkindly. Idgrod did, and he grasped her shoulder. His grip was icy. Without another word, he pulled back his hood. It parted into smoke as it passed through the crown, which remained on his brow. Suddenly, more dark smoke rippled throughout the chamber, revealing everything. The banners took on colours and sigils, and the King's face was revealed. He smiled down at her. It was a dark grin. 'You know me, don't you?' he asked. Idgrod did. She tried to shout out, but the Knight pulled her down with an unbreakable grasp, and ran his dagger across her throat.

**Idgrod woke up in a **dark field, breathing heavily. She looked around, and grasped her throat, but it was smooth and unbroken. _Just a dream, _she gasped. _Then why did it feel so real? _

Suddenly, a sound caught her ears. A rustling, coming from nearby. Idgrod got to her feet slowly and crept to the edge of the forest she had woken up in. There was a clearing in front of her, dominated by a swirl of patterns. She knew this place; it was the summoning square, not a mile from Morthal. Idgrod peered through the leaves, and noticed a man, standing there. She pulled back as he turned to her, and tripped. She fell in the leaves and he heard her. Idgrod got to her feet and ran, fear pounding through her mind, as the forest dissolved around her.

**Idgrod Ravencrone II woke in **her bed with heavy breathes. It was early evening. _I must have fallen asleep… _Suddenly, everything came together. Her breath caught as she comprehended exactly what she had just seen. _I saw the King's true face. I know who he is, _Idgrod realised, shocked.Without a second thought she leapt from her bed and scrabbled for parchment. The ink spilled and streaked it with spots, but she managed to write coherently. In a panic, Idgrod glanced around, looking for something to seal it in, but there was nothing. In a mad rush of inspiration, Idgrod noticed her dagger and rammed it through the scroll, holding it tight together. _This is absurd, _she realised, as she reflected on the whole situation, but she had to do something. The first dream had been for someone else she knew, but the second… that one was for her. Idgrod knew what she had to do.

Without another thought she quickly dressed, pulling on boots and leggings, and a short coat, all in as dark a-colours as she could find. As Idgrod was about the leave the room, she realised something else she could do, something blindingly obvious; she could tell Mother. The Younger left her room and raced downstairs. Mother was on her throne, as Idgrod had expected, watching the world with a weary gaze. Since the war had began, she had hardly slept, perhaps to ward off the dreams. It didn't matter now though. Mother looked up as Idgrod entered the room, flushed.

'I have something to show you.'

'Idgrod,' Mother asked, frowning. 'What are you doing here, dressed like you're ready to go out?'

'I had a dream,' she began.

'Now is not the time,' Mother said, sternly. 'Joric is asleep.'

'This isn't a game, Mother,' Idgrod said, on the verge of screaming with frustration. The dreams knocked around her mind restlessly. 'I know who he is.'

'Who? Wait…' her face hardened. 'You mean this "King"?'

'He exists,' Idgrod said breathlessly. 'I know who he does.'

'I don't want to hear it,' Mother snapped. 'Gorm.'

The Housecarl stepped from the shadows, and grasped Idgrod's arm. She began to struggle, but Mother just ignored her and Gorm dragged her back to her room.

'I'm sorry, Idgrod. The Jarl gets like this sometimes,' he said, by way of apology.

'Fuck you,' she hissed as he closed her door. Idgrod let out a frustrated breath, and looked around her room. _I could give up. _But suddenly, she didn't want to. Those visions had been given to her for a reason, and Idgrod knew what she had to do.

Looking around, she pushed open the window. Ravencrone would have liked her dagger by her side, but now it was stuck firmly inside the roll of parchment. She wrapped the bundle up, and shoved the whole mess into a satchel. It burned a hole in her side as it banged against her hip.

With a deft movement Idgrod climbed from her window and descended the side of the longhouse. It wasn't very tall, and she soon dropped to the muddy ground easily. _It's rained again, _she noticed. The night was clear now though, which was a relief. That said, it was getting darker as she hurried through the streets. Idgrod kept an eye open for any thieves but they seemed content to let her pass, if indeed they were stalking the streets as she suspected.

It must have taken longer to reach Djurien's farm, but Idgrod hardly noticed. Her mind was in a rush, and she felt a little faint, but she pounded on the door anyway, fear making her swift. It was Djurien who came to the door, looking tired. When he focused on Idgrod, his face hardened and he tried to shut the door but Idgrod rammed her foot into the gap, winching in pain as it bit into her toes.

Djurien sighed, opening the door properly. 'What is it?'

Idgrod thrust back the pain and moved forward to the porch. 'Dark things are afoot. I need you to keep something safe.' She passed him the scroll. He eyed it curiously, and began to pull out the dagger, but she stopped him. 'It's for only one man's eyes.' She had been thinking about this as she had walked, and there was only one man she trusted, who could get this information to the King, and had the power and tenacity to act on it. 'Carl Thorek Silver-Blood, the King's Housecarl.'

Djurien's expression turned black, but also pained, as if he knew something she didn't. He nodded tensely, and slammed the door shut before she could react.

'No, wait. Please,' she cried. 'Beware of the King,' Idgrod said quietly, resting her head against the wooden door. She sighed, and turned away. There was no time to dwell on anything that might have been, or how badly the conversation had gone. Likely as not, Djurien would burn the letter, or reveal its contents to the wrong people, but that was out of her hands now. Idgrod almost considered going back, but stopped herself; there was no point. _The door will remain closed for the rest of the night. _

Idgrod turned her mind to other matters, namely as the impending meeting. With a quick step, she started heading back to town. The summoning clearing was in an area on the outskirts of the forest that weaved past Djurien's farm, nearer Morthal itself. Idgrod glanced around as a chilly air whisked past, and pulled her cloak around herself. Her boots crunched over the leaves, and she moved more slowly, making for the safety of the forest trees. Idgrod remembered her vision and was careful to make sure that she didn't make the same mistake she had in the dream.

It was a good thing she was so silent; there were men in the clearing already as she moved among the trees. They numbered about five, all with horses. _The horses in the dark, _she remembered, memories flashing back to one of her recurring visions. It had always been foreboding, and now she knew why. The Morthal guard might be able to stop them, if she could get Mother to raise them in time. Until she had evidence, at least something her Mother could see in her eyes, there was no chance of anything being done to prevent the coming storm. Mother was stubborn like that.

Idgrod crept closer and crouched down, glad for her dark clothing. The men were waiting for someone, as evidenced by their shuffling feet and uneasy conversation. Suddenly, they fell silent, and Idgrod heard a horse's hoofs stepping across the stone base of the circle. She peered out through the trees and into the darkness to see a large man dismount and step into the men's group. Like the others, he was wearing a hood, but was richly dressed with a fur trim around his cloak and a golden chain. He looked around at them silently. It was so quiet, Idgrod could hear his breath as it sent out puffs of smoke through the cold night.

'Are you the Lord?' one of the them asked. The man nodded, looked around. Idgrod waited with hushed breath.

'Are you ready?' His voice was deep, but vaguely familiar. Idgrod quickly pushed it from her mind as he continued. 'The plans have been decided on?'

The same man replied. 'Yes, Lord. We were going to strike tonight.'

'Good. It will be simple, I imagine. The Builder is waiting. Where are your men?' _The Builder, like the one from my dream._

'They are camped a mile north of Morthal.' Idgrod's heart sank. _An armed coup! What can I do against that? _'The right evidence has been laid,' he continued, but she didn't need to hear anymore. Idgrod had to rouse the guard as quickly as possible, or else Morthal would be taken. As quickly as she could, she moved back into the forest. Concentrating as she was on the men behind her, Idgrod didn't notice the outlying log and tripped, falling to the leaves with sharp rustling sound. Fear coursed through her as the men fell silent, and she held her breath. Luckily, the Lord started talking again as if nothing had happened and she managed to find the road again. Thinking of the men, she dived off the main path and into the marshes and fields that ran alongside it.

Idgrod moved quickly; even in the dark, she was accustomed to the lie of the land and flitted through the scrubs and roughly beaten track until she came within sight of Morthal. Steeling herself, Idgrod moved onto the road and ran down the path, into the town itself. Without any regard for the men or robbers in the streets, she sprinted for the longhouse. It was a far distance and her breath came out hard and fast as he stumbled to the door. Without waiting to listen, Idgrod burst through the door, into the main hall.

'Mother! They're here!' Suddenly, Idgrod froze, and her heart stopped. Mother was on the floor, and a man stood over her, with his sword unsheathed. It's point rested on the wooden floor, but before Idgrod could do anything, a hand pulled her down with an unbreakable grasp, and threw her to the ground.

Pain spiked up her legs and Ravencrone gasped. Idgrod forced it back and raised herself to see Mother staring back at her. She didn't look surprised, or sorry. _If she had just listened! _

The horses in the night came back to Idgrod as she heard hoofs sound outside. Fear coursed through her mind, clouding her thoughts as the door was thrown open, and in walked the Lord. He glanced around, taking in a deep breath, and surveyed the room with the air of a satisfied man.

'Where is the boy?' he asked the man behind her. Idgrod couldn't see her own attacker, but she could guess who it was, her dream flashing back again with vivid pictures.

'In the next one. I left a man there. Shall I bring him in?' He was about to move away from Idgrod, but the Lord beckoned him back.

'This is no place for young boys. Or girls, is it, Idgrod Younger?' he asked. She could feel his smile beneath his hood.

'Fuck you,' Idgrod growled.

'You should be quicker, my girl. We heard you trip.' Idgrod's heart sank further still; they must have pretended they hadn't heard her. Fear coursed through her blood, but if she was going to die, then she would do it with dignity. 'Where's Gorm?'

'Gorm?' the Lord repeated. 'He's right here.' He pulled off his hood to reveal the Housecarl, who was smiling. His eyes were far more calculating and ruthless than Idgrod had ever realised before. The sight sickened her.

'You betrayed me,' Mother said, breaking her silence. She didn't sound angry, only sad. That struck Idgrod harder than she thought it might have. 'Why?'

Gorm rubbed his hands together dismissively. 'The King commanded it. Does anything else matter?'

Mother's face became pained. 'Idgrod, my daughter.' The Lord looked content to let her speak, stilling the man who made to silence her. 'I am sorry I never told you. This was…,' she sighed deeply, and her eyes were dark with sorrow; 'just something that is necessary.'

'Wait, what?' Idgrod asked, confused by the statement, as the Lord nodded at Mother. The man with the sword lifted his weapon. 'No, wait!' Idgrod screamed as he plunged the blade into Mother's neck. Blood ran across the floor, towards her daughter. 'You bastard!' she screamed at Gorm, venom filling her voice, as she tried to break from her attacker's grip, to no avail. The man with the sword approached and rammed the blade into her heart without hesitating. Red pain rushed through her body, and Idgrod Ravencrone II slumped to the ground, into her mother's blood. She let out a shallow breath, as the blackness utterly consumed her.

**Shit! Well, please review. **


	50. Different Faces

**Sorry this took so long. Personal issues came up, so everything went to hell for a while. **

**The thanks; To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! You'll find out what Idgrod Senior kept hidden, but I can't tell you. Glad you liked it and good leg with the broken bones. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Nope, he is not a vampire. That's all I can say. Thanks to Kolbe for the Story Favourite! Thanks to igrewunponpunkrock for the Favourite as well. Thanks to everyone for the reviews and stuff! **

**A bit of set up here. The battle will follow soon. Also, I think you guys will like the next chapter…**

**Jarl Alsfur Stormcloak **

**The message came as Jarl **Alsfur Stormcloak was preparing to review the state of his army's supplies. It had been a task he wasn't looking forward to in the slightest. Mother had taught him how to manage his finances, and Brunwulf had helped him to manage a city and force of men, but until now, it had never been real, or on this massive scale. Alsfur nearly passed it on to another man, but he knew that wasn't what Father would have done, so he had laid it out on his campaign desk, and sat to get on with it. He had soon been distracted though.

The desk was a forceful reminder of Father. He could see where he had rested his elbows, gleaned his private life from the drawers; everything that Alsfur suddenly realised he had never known about him. It was a crushing feeling, to say the least, and brought down a deep cloud of depression as he surveyed the wood. That in turn had reminded him of Mother, and the younger Stormcloak wondered how she was, or how she was coping with the news. Presumably his letter had reached her by now, and she had grieved as she saw fit. Alsfur didn't think he could stand to see her again, knowing what she would be going through, but until now it had been left to Ulfgar to deal with it. _I wonder how he's coping? _For Mother's sake, Alsfur hoped his brother was handling it well.

The message had come in the form of a young squire. His face was white with fear, which had only increased Alsfur's own uneasiness, and so with deep foreboding, Stormcloak had pulled himself up to confront the inevitable.

'What is it?' he asked.

'Urgent news, my Jarl.' _I can guess that, _Alsfur thought, a little irritated. The paperwork was still on his mind. 'Thongvor Silver-Blood is preparing to attack.'

That snapped him back into sharp reality. Stormcloak's look became intent. 'What do you mean?'

'Carl Ralof's scouts reported a movement in front of us. There is also a force behind us.'

Alsfur felt a slight burst of relief. Ralof had insisted on seeing him to Windhelm, and helping in anyway he could. Obviously, his scouts were meticulous in their job, something Alsfur was pleased with now. Suddenly, he knew instantly what Silver-Blood intended; he was going to trap them between the very mountains they were passing through now. It wasn't the cleverest of plans, but it would be brutally effective, Alsfur knew. 'Gather my captains, and Carl Ralof, as quickly as you can.' The squire ran off without another word, and Alsfur quickly combed his hair with his fingers nervously before seizing his dagger, and Kodaav. The sword hummed in his fingers with electric anticipation.

Alsfur Stormcloak didn't have far to move; he made his way into the next section of his tent, where the war map was located. He made his way over to its head, again reminded of Father, as he had been before that fateful battle. Dark anger, furious and untamed, rose up as he thought about Silver-Blood's part in his death.

'My Jarl?'

Alsfur turned to see his great-uncle, Ulster Stormcloak, standing by the tent flap he had just come through. _I must have missed him, caught up in my thoughts. _'What is it?'

His new Housecarl moved forward, dressed in full armour. 'You've heard I presume?'

'Obviously,' Alsfur snapped. It was a fairly stupid question.

Ulster pursed his lips, irritation flashing across his eyes. 'Then you know what we have to do?'

'I'm aware, Ulster,' Alsfur said tightly. He was right though; either they win this battle, or their cause was done.

One by one, his bannermen began to filter in after the Housecarl. Shatter-Shield was the last, and he glanced around warily. 'What is the problem, my Jarl?'

There was no point of delaying it; the news would be a shock to them all. 'Silver-Blood is preparing to surround us.' As expected, they started talking, trying to decipher what his meant for them. Mostly, it was just babble, and Alsfur glanced at Thane Blackmoore, the only man who was silent, and they exchanged a knowing look.

'What do you want us to do?' he asked, cutting through the noise.

Alsfur nodded at his question as everyone fell silent to listen. 'We need to prepare for battle.' Te room was suddenly filled with an electric feel; the air crackled with tension, as the Thanes realised what this meant. Meanwhile, fear began to rise up from the depths as Alsfur realised exactly what he was doing; deciding the fate of his men, and Clan Stormcloak.

'Can we manoeuvre out of this fix?' Shatter-Shield asked.

'No.' They all turned to see the new voice, as Ralof stepped through the entrance flap. He looked around at them with those hollow eyes, causing one man to flinch and then moved up to Alsfur. The sight of him was disarming; he hardly resembled the man that left Windhelm several months ago to go to Whiterun. 'My Jarl, they have us truly trapped. We cannot move from the mountain, save perhaps by climbing it, but that would be stupid. He is less than a day from us now, and his entire host follows him, including,' his expression became fearsome; 'Falkreath. Riften's forces were left to harass Whiterun.'

'So, he outnumbers us,' Blackmoore summed up with a depressing edge.

'By quite a number,' Ralof admitted.

'So, it's over?' Shatter-Shield asked, glaring around them all as if they had failed him. The Thanes became more uneasy as he said this, and Alsfur knew he had to act quickly to crush the dissent.

'No, but it is for Silver-Blood. Look outside, Thanes. What do you see?' Alsfur paused, waiting for them to speak. None did. He hadn't actually expected them to. 'Mountains,' Stormcloak pointed out forcefully. 'Rocks, caves.' He leant forward, grinning. 'We're going to spring a trap on Silver-Blood.'

The Thanes reacted excitedly to this new development, but again Blackmoore pointed out the obvious. '_How_?'

'We're going to use bait,' Alsfur said, growing in confidence as his plan came together. 'A main body of men will continue down the path. It will have to be large enough to properly fool Silver-Blood into thinking all our men are together. Meanwhile, several bodies of men will stay here, and march ahead, to wait for Silver-Blood to pass. I plan to use his own trap against him. If my plan goes correctly, the main force should hardly even feel the real attack.'

'It could work,' Ralof mused. 'It just might.'

'Suggestions, Thanes?' Alsfur asked. To his surprise, no one said anything. Instead, they all nodded with vague agreement, which was better than nothing. 'Fine. Positions then?'

'I'll take one of the bodies of men that springs the trap,' Blackmoore announced mildly. 'If my Jarl wishes it?'

Alsfur nodded. He didn't entirely trust Tor, but he liked Erik, and in any case the Blackmoore's were very capable.

'I want to command the main force,' Shatter-Shield demanded aggressively.

'I think not,' Alsfur said. 'I will take that group.' The other Nord looked ready to protest, but then backed down sullenly; the Jarl had primacy in his decision, but Ralof was not so traditional.

Wood looked stunned for a second, and attempted to comprehend what he had just heard, even though it was only to be expected. 'You can't do that, Alsfur. You could be killed!'

Stormcloak turned to glare at him angrily. He couldn't be challenged in front of his men. 'Silence, Carl Ralof.'

He looked ready to argue more, but held himself as he saw the Thanes surrounding him. Ralof backed down, reluctantly, for Alsfur's sake, but his eyes promised that he would have more to say later.

'Shatter-Shield, you'll join Blackmoore,' Alsfur ordered, ignoring Ralof's outburst. The Nord didn't look overly happy at that, but he nodded regardless. 'Amol, you'll lead the second force of men.' The Nord inclined his head, satisfied. _At least someone is pleased, _Alsfur thought as he assigned the rest of the roles, before sending them off to rally their men.

As soon as they were gone, Ralof seized the opportunity to speak. He moved forward to Alsfur, his expression furious.

'What was that?'

Alsfur didn't appreciate his tone, and his voice hardened. 'What do you mean?'

'You can't lead the main force,' Ralof determined stoutly.

'Why not, _Carl _Wood?' Stormcloak asked icily.

The former Housecarl recognised the use of the title, and he backed down a little. 'You could be killed, my Jarl.'

Alsfur moved to the war table, and started examining it. 'Everyone can in war, Carl Ralof. I'd be a poor Nord if I was excused that honour.'

'Honour?' Ralof spat. Stormcloak looked back at him. His hands were shaking with anger, but his face looked as if he was about to be sick. 'That _honour_ killed Jon!'

'Then let's be thankful I'm not my Father!' Alsfur bellowed. His rage was all consuming now, and he moved towards Ralof threateningly. 'Get out.'

Ralof returned his glare, and then shrugged, suddenly calm. 'Fine.' He left without another word, and Ulster moved forward from the shadows. Alsfur had almost forgotten he was there.

'That wasn't wise.'

The younger Stormcloak was tired of everyone questioning him. He hated it; it made him feel as if he had done something wrong, or that they didn't trust his judgement. 'Spare me.'

Ulster pursed his lips. 'A good Jarl listens to his council.'

Alsfur couldn't deny that. 'He does,' he agreed quietly. 'But Father was never questioned when he made a decision.'

'You are young, and my nephew was not most men. Soon, they will go unquestioningly.'

Alsfur bit his lip, and stared out the tent entrance, feeling suddenly guilty. 'Maybe I should apologise to Ralof?'

Ulster nodded. 'Wait for him to cool off.' He touched Alsfur's arm before moving away, but the other Stormcloak caught him.

'Bring Erik Blackmoore here, and his cousin Tavia, is you would,' Alsfur asked, still feeling guilty.

'As you wish, my Jarl.' Ulster left and Alsfur collapsed into a seat by the side, rubbing his brow. Everything was so much harder that he had expected, and it was wearing him down. Quite often, he wondered how Father had ever done it, _and_ with his illness. _He had Mother_, Alsfur reflected, feeling lonely. That line of thinking brought about more thoughts of Tavia, and her role in all this. _Would she support me as well as Mother? _That wasn't a hard question; she had been at his side throughout the whole journey here. More than that, Alsfur had found they had much in common. An interest in the different cultures of Tamriel were just one of them, and something Alsfur hadn't realised he liked before, and they had spent many hours discussing the religions of the world. _We were particularly scathing about the Dark Elves, _Alsfur recalled, smiling, his guilt briefly forgotten. It was then that Erik and Tavia entered, with Ulster following them.

Alsfur stood, and clasped Erik arm, before kissing Tavia hand. She eyed him sweetly, and he stepped back. He gave Ulster a pointed look, and the Housecarl left.

'Why this call, if I may ask?' Erik said.

'I have things to discuss,' Alsfur replied.

'About the war?' he guessed, and Stormcloak led them away to the side, pushing his guilty thoughts aside, as he remembered his conversation with Ralof about the 'war'.

'I want you to go into Amol's command. I mean to split the army to surround Silver-Blood, when he attacks.' Erik gave him a blank look, hiding any thoughts about this new pieces of news, and Alsfur shrugged. 'Your father will explain it all.'

'Are you sure that's a wise idea?' Tavia asked, catching on lightning fast.

Erik intervened with a thin smile. 'These are matters of war, cousin,' he explained, completely oblivious to her raised eyebrows, as was the Blackmoore way, before nodding at Alsfur. 'Why with Amol?'

'I want someone I can trust among his ranks,' Stormcloak said simply.

That satisfied Erik, and he nodded. 'As you wish, Alsfur. My sword is yours.'

'I know.' They clasped arms and he left without another word to tell Tor, leaving Tavia with Alsfur.

She glared after her cousin, still annoyed by the comment, before turning to Alsfur. 'Why was that needed?'

Stormcloak pressed his hands down on the war table, his eyes flickering across the map. 'I wanted to show Erik that I value him. I cannot invite him to my councils, not until he's Thane.'

'My cousin is not so petty,' Tavia told him, but Alsfur waved it off.

'He is the next generation of captains. I'd prefer to start integrating them now, before I find myself surrounded by strangers.'

'But there's more to it than that, isn't there?' Tavia guessed astutely.

Alsfur was silent for a moment, before slumping down by the table. She hesitated briefly, before sitting next to him. 'Yes. I needed to "include" someone I knew in this plan. I don't know, for comfort I guess.' He felt vaguely insecure right now.

Tavia gave him a sympathetic look. 'What about Ralof?'

His guilt over their fight came back up, and Alsfur took a deep breath. 'I don't know. He's not the same man anymore. No one is; it's like they've all morphed into different beasts since my father's death.'

'Or maybe you never really knew them?' Tavia said quietly.

The idea upset Alsfur, but she was right. They had played him nicely, knowing his future position, but in reality, he knew no more than their faces. 'Maybe,' Alsfur admitted. He looked around the tent, listening to the sound of movement outside, and sighed. The pressure of command had never felt quite as heavy, not even when Father had first died. It was threatening to overwhelm him, but this time Alsfur was determined to keep his emotions to himself, like Father always did. 'Tomorrow is going to be hard.'

'A little more than hard,' Tavia smiled at his light tone. 'But easier than it is to please my uncle, so that's something.'

Alsfur smiled thinly, and turned to her. 'I never did manage to please Tor Blackmoore, did I?'

'You'd be surprised. Behind the frown, I think he actually likes you.'

'That, or he just decided it would be easier than hating me. I am very charming,' Alsfur confided with an easy smile.

Tavia laughed and punched his arm. 'No, I was wrong; he does hates you.'

Alsfur grinned and moved closer to her. 'What about you? Do you like me?'

She pushed him back with a smile. 'Not when you're so obvious.'

'In an hour or so, I'll be in chainmail, and then you won't be able to resist me.'

'I'll just have to rip through the mail then to get to you.' She stopped suddenly when she realised what she had said so obviously.

Alsfur watched her embarrassed expression and the laughed. She regarded him crossly, but he didn't mind. Her frown was cute. 'You know, I love you when you're being obvious.' And then he moved in for the kiss, which she eagerly returned. Alsfur knew what was coming next, and his heart started beating faster. He started moving over her, his hands running over her body, exploring it rapidly, before moving back more slowly to undo her dress. Tavia broke away for a second, breathing heavily, her eyes fiery with lust, as Ulster came back through the tent flap.

They sprang apart quickly, and he crossed his arms, smiling. 'That's the kind of courage most men seek before battle,' he told Alsfur, amused. 'Good, I'd hate to have thought a woman was leading us. No offence, my lady,' he said, glancing at Blackmoore's niece. Tavia pulled herself up and quickly straightened her dress before leaving, her face bright red. Alsfur watched her go, disappointed.

'Thanks for that, Ulster.'

'You've got a long night ahead. You'll see the dawn soon enough.' He chuckled at his little joke, moving to retrieve Alsfur's armour, leaving the latter to reflect on just accurate that statement really was.

**Well, that's it. I hope you liked it, even if it was pretty slow. The next one should be much more exciting. **


	51. Final Impressions

**The thanks; to Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked the chapter. Amol will not betray his Jarl, so don't worry about that. To Blade Agent, thanks for the review! Ulster should get an award for his timing. Well, Jon was always grumpy, and Alsfur is unproven; you have to give them time. That said, they liked Jon, but not closely. It was more than respect, as you know he could be very inspiring, but certainly he wasn't the buddy Ulfric was, but then no commander can afford to be in a feudal system like this. Power must be preserved, and they must know who controls who. Thanks to everyone that reviews. ShoutFinder is on a massive quest to review every chapter, so thanks for that! **

**Let's see what was happening back at Morthal, and then it's Casta, and then, we'll see what happens to Alsfur and co. This is a good old one off. **

**Djurien **

**The window broke easily. Djurien **threw aside his cloak, which he had used to muffle the blow, and hauled himself through the gap. _Thank the gods for the Jarl's bloody big windows. _He hit the ground lightly, and looked around with a practiced glance, taking in his surroundings quickly. The room was some kind of store, filled with bags of flour and wheat. Djurien moved to one and used his dagger to open the cloth; beans of some kind spilled over his feet. Djurien turned away, and started towards the door, before the sound of voices caught his attention. _What the hell? _He had come to see Idgrod, to talk about the letter and everything that had passed between them. It hurt to recall how he had locked her out. _What a bastard, _he thought, cursing himself. He sighed; _I acted the child. _But it was hard to keep his head when she talked about Thorek, the man who had stolen her heart.

Djurien was ripped from the painful thoughts by the voices again, and it was then that he realised he had heard them before, from the inn. His heart froze, and he pushed himself against the wall of the room, edging to the door. Djurien had expected that something was amiss when he had spotted the horsemen on Morthal's street, hence his less than glamorous entrance through the window, but a part of him had wanted to deny what he had suspected this might be.

He moved to the door and peaked round the frame, to see two men standing in the throne room, facing away from him. he saw sent ripples of shock through his spine. _They've captured the Jarl! _Even as he watched, another man came down the steps dragging Joric. The boy was silent, his head bowed. The Jarl's face became pained as she saw him, but the man ignored her, instead exchanging a few words with the ringleader, a Nord presumably, in steel mail, his head covered by a dark blue hood. A rich sword hung at his side, and his easy stride suggested skill with it. Djurien's stare burned; the cocky stride, the head movements… It was everything he resented in a person. He frowned at that; Idgrod had mentioned his own stride more than once, but he quickly pushed it from his mind as he noticed the man dragging Joric coming forward to the store room.

With sudden, sharp fear pounding through is veins, Djurien pressed himself against the wall, squeezing himself into the shadows and then drew his dagger with a swift movement. The man entered a moment later. Djurien knew what he had to do; he had no choice. With a quick motion he moved forward, forcing his dagger into the man's spine sharply. It broke with a sickly snap, and he fell, spasming slightly. Joric stepped back, watching his blood pool beneath his feet, before turning his fizzing green eyes on Djurien.

'Nice work,' he said mildly, completely unconcerned by the corpse in front of him.

Djurien gave him a disconcerted look, and dragged the body to the side, pulling Joric with him as he did so. Safely in the shadows, he asked what had been on his mind since seeing the horsemen. 'What the hell is going on here?'

'Isn't it simple?' Joric said, slightly patronisingly. 'It's a coup.'

Djurien's body was hit with a burst of shock that shattered any illusions he had held a moment before. 'A coup? To kill the Jarl?'

Ravencrone nodded. 'We need to leave and warn my sister.'

'What about your mother?' Djurien hissed, edging to the door again to peer around it. The men were walking around, looking bored now.

'She wanted this,' Joric said. 'But my sister had no part in this,' he affirmed fiercely.

Djurien turned, more confused than ever. 'Wait, she wanted this?' His question was cut off as the sound of a door crashed through the building. The Nord quickly moved back to the frame, as his worst fears came true. It was Idgrod.

The man in the armour kicked out her leg expertly, drawing his dagger with a fluid movement, flipping it into the air as she fell, before grasping it deftly. He placed across her throat. Deep longing, and horror flashed through Djurien as he beheld Idgrod's expression; she was terrified.

He stepped back into the darkness, breathing heavily. Sweat began to prick at his brow, as he tried to make sense of what he had just seen. _A coup. It's a coup. _Djurien looked back at Joric, who was moving forward, any nonchalance gone now he saw his sister. The elder Nord knew what he was going to do, and he grabbed Joric, pulling him into a grip. Ravencrone struggled, but Djurien held him tight.

'If you go out there, you'll die,' he hissed.

Joric wrenched Djurien's hands off his mouth, and turned to face the other Nord. 'I have to go out there!'

Djurien pushed him back. 'We need to go.' The words felt like ash on his tongue, as he realised he was going to abandon Idgrod to her fate. His heart wrenched painfully, but the scroll she had given him, charged him to deliver safely, burned a hole in the bag at his side. Looking down at Joric, he knew exactly what she would want him to do. 'Use these sacks to find food. We'll take enough for a day or so, after which we'll have to find other ways to get across Skyrim.' Those words felt sour as well, as he realised he was committing himself to piracy.

'Wait, where are we going?' Joric asked, fear gleaming his eyes.

'Away,' Djurien said simply, pulling open a bag. This time, Joric didn't question him, and he started rummaging through the sacks. They swiftly packed bread and apples, along with some cheese, stuffed it in the bag, and then Djurien pulled him to the window. Joric climbed out as more commotion came from the room opposite. With a start, Djurien recognised Gorm's voice, and Idgrod's, and he paused. _It can't be, can it? _Hot anger flared up in his mind as he slowly pieced together what he was hearing, but then Joric hissed from the window and Djurien remembered he had to leave now, or never.

The Nord swiftly hauled himself up the window and dropped to the muddy ground, his boots emitting a squelch that made Djurien winch and quickly listen out to see if anyone heard it inside the longhouse. No one did, and Djurien was about to move away, but then Idgrod flashed back into his mind, and he paused, torn between getting her to safety, or saving her brother. Djurien moved back tentatively to the window, all the while trying to force himself away, before Joric came up beside him.

'We need to go.' The older Nord looked at him; Ravecrone's eyes were hard, but even so Djurien could see the pain behind them.

'Okay,' he consented reluctantly. They turned away and started padding along the side of the longhouse, before they heard a scream, which made Djurien's blood freeze. It was followed by a cry, and the Nord realised what had happened instantly. _They've found the body. _

'RUN!' he bellowed at Joric, all attempt at secrecy gone. Ravencrone needed no prompting; he broke into a gangly sprint, making for the road. Djurien followed him before noticing the men leaping into horses, drawing shining steel. 'Fuck and shit.' He shoved Joric to the side, dragging him towards the guard's barracks. Djurien knew they would need proof, but it was following them now; they would fight.

The Jarl's Guard's barracks were by the longhouse, quite luckily, and Joric burst inside. Djurien followed him, his heart matching the pounding of hoofs that splashed in the mud outside. He locked the door behind him, and turned to see Joric being knocked down by a man. The guard's barracks was a two story room, the first being a common area. Two men slumped dead over a table, killed by a couple of Nords dressed in dark cloaks. _Agents of the King. _Idgrod's warning forced it's way to the front of his mind and without hesitation, Djurien leapt forward, drawing his sword.

His first strike decapitated one of the men, but the other recovered quickly and their steel met in a ringing clash. Djurien knew he had the advantage, as the men was likely still in shock, so he pressed him back, their swords kissing once, then twice, before Djurien slammed his weight into the man. He stumbled and attempted a wild swing at the Nord's head, but Djurien ducked and rammed his blade into the man's side. It stuck on a rib, and blood burst out. By now, the commotion had woken the guards from above, and five of them entered the room armed with axes and swords. Djurien drew himself, pointing his bloody blade at Joric, who had recovered by now.

'You liege needs you! Defend the Jarl.' Saying that confirmed the obvious; everyone else was dead.

The men looked stunned, but the pounding at the door quickly drew them to their senses, and they started calling for the rest of the men. There were a fifty here in total, enough to cover Joric's escape. Djurien didn't fool himself; the only thing to do was spirit Ravencrone away. Staying here would see him die.

Hurried on by fear, the guards quickly armed themselves and slipped into mail. Their captain was still alive, and he moved to Djurien as his men started bracing the door.

'Djurien? What's going on?' He glanced uneasily at Joric.

'My sister and mother are dead,' Ravencrone said. He drew himself up, looking fierce, but Djurien could see the anguish inside. 'There's been a coup, and those men outside mean to kill me. Don't allow it to happen.'

The captain's shock gave way to righteous anger. 'No, my Jarl. They won't get through.' He started bellowing for his men, calling them together, obviously pushing back any surprise he had for this sudden turn of events; it was what they were trained for after all. 'Lads! Hold the door, and secure the prison downstairs. We need to ensure no-one gets in.' He turned to Djurien. 'How many are there? Can we signal to the main fort?'

'Only a few men are actually here, but the man behind this will see that the men at the fort are dead, or corrupted, captain,' Djurien said, the words sticking on his tongue. _What a mess… _

'Then it's just us,' the captain confirmed resolutely. He looked at Joric. 'My Jarl, we need to get you out of here. I'll send what men I can with you-'

'No!' Djurien said. 'We'll travel faster alone. Armour me with leather and I'll get him away.'

'The stores are at the back. Go quickly. We won't have long to make a push before your coup's main force arrives.'

Djurien nodded and beckoned Joric with him. He quickly pulled on a boiled leather jerkin, abandoning his cloak. Steel bracers went on his arms, but that was all he could manage if he was to make a quick escape. Djurien fitted Joric in leather as well, with a short sword, which would be easier to use and carry for him right now. It only took a frenzied few minutes before they made their back to the front, where the men were arranged as if to fight their way out. The captain nodded as he saw them, approving their choice of equipment.

'Okay, lads! This is it. Let's get our Jarl to safety.' The Guard returned his cry and threw up the locking bolt, before bursting out. Their steel was met by little resistance, but out of the town, torches were bobbing in the darkness like fireflies as the main force approached, ready to crush any dissent to the new regime. The captain saw it, and pursed his lips. 'You'll be faster on foot. Make for the marshes. We'll hold them off.'

'But you'll die!' Joric protested.

The captain gave him a soft look. 'For you, my Jarl. Go.'

Djurien pulled Joric away, exchanging a nod for the captain's immense loyalty, and they started running, Behind him, the Guard formed up, the best in the hold, ready to fight the invaders for their Jarl. It would hopeless though; Mortal was unwalled and they were vastly outnumbered. _We'll see them in Sovngarde though. _A pang of regret briefly thrust itself to the forefront of his mind, but on seeing Joric's concerned look, he shoved it away, replacing the look on his face with steely determination.

They raced to the beginning of the marshes, sprawling off from the side of the road, away from Morthal. They plunged in, throwing up mud and water as they waded through, jumping to the firmer parts of the mud to pick up speed. Behind them echoed the sound of combat, and the cries of the wounded. It sent a chill through Djurien as he thought about all those men dead behind them, sacrificing themselves for the young Nord struggling through the mud beside him.

'The forest,' Djurien instructed. 'We need to get among the trees.'

'They could have ridden ahead,' Joric said, breathing heavily as he forced his way through the mud.

Djurien didn't answer that.

They heard hoofs and whipped around to see horsemen on the edge of the marsh. _They must have forced their way past the Guard. _Brashly, one of them tried to force his mount into the mud, but as soon as he did, the horse started shrieking as it fell in under the deep mud. He thrashed around wildly, but their combined weight was far too heavy, and they stayed trapped, slowly being sucked in further. The other horsemen moved back wearily, and drew bows from their saddlebags.

'Shit,' Djurien muttered, dismayed.

They released their arrows as the sounds of combat fell silent behind them, and they plunged down like angry hornets into the mist lining the bottom of the swamp. One slammed down by Djurien's foot and he let out a curse, forcing his way forward at a far more rapid pace than before. Joric followed suit and they squelched forward furiously, as the missiles landed around them. Glancing back, Djurien noticed one advantage to the arrow storm; even as they tried to hit them, the horsemen were not making for the forest, so intent as they were at catching their prey. But suddenly, another man appeared behind them, dressed in the shining steel mail. His arms moved wildly, and the horsemen started dropping their bows and mounting up, obviously cowed by his rage.

Djurien wasn't sure if he was happy by this turn in events; miraculously, they had escaped unharmed from the arrows, but now they were going to go head to head with the King's men in the forest. Joric must have noticed the same thing, but the older Nord pushed him forward regardless as they slipped among the pines of the forest. It was almost pitch dark now, and it gave each tree a threatening look, which chilled Djurien to his spine.

His breath was heavy, and fog wrapped out from his mouth as he surveyed his surroundings. He knew the forest well, but even so, it was going to be a gift from the Divines if they actually made it out. Djurien sent up a prayer to Talos, and Stendarr, the righteous Gods, for an escape, before padding further into the trees.

The air was cold, but silent, humming with tension. Djurien looked around wildly; obviously the man in steel was smart. Using torches would have revealed their positions for Djurien to take out in a fiery glow, but now, the Nord was just as disadvantaged as they were. Guessing at a rough path though, Djurien began to tread forward, peering into the darkness…

Suddenly, a shape drove into his side. He fell, letting out a cry, to find himself straddled by a vicious looking man who held a dagger in his hand. Without hesitation, he drove it down, but Djurien caught it just as it was about to slam down into his face. He held it, but the man was in too good a position. Soon, it was drawing a bloody line across his cheek. But as quickly as it had come, it was gone, replaced by Joric's figure in the emerging moonlight. His short sword was bloody by his side, and he reached out a cool hand. Djurien glanced at the man; his back had been torn open savagely, and his spine snapped. The Nord let out a breath of relief, and unease at Joric's ferocity, before pushing him forward with a nod of thanks. But by now, the whole forest had heard those screams and Djurien sensed the men all around them.

Without a word, they both started sprinting forward, weaving through the trees and stumbling over roots. The moonlight was providing a guide for Djurien now and he led them without hesitation, glancing around them. With a surge of icy fear, he noticed the shapes of men behind them. He turned his head again just in time to spot a sword swinging at his face. Quick as a cat, Djurien hit the ground, drawing his own blade with a bloody swing that severed the man's leg. He screamed, but there was no point in silencing him now. The King's men had arrived.

Djurien turned to Joric, pulling off the bag he had been carrying. It contained Idgrod's scroll, and if she was to be believed, it was one of the most important documents in Tamriel now. He thrust it all at Joric, and started whispering quickly.

'In this bag is a scroll detailing important information. I don't know what it says, but it is for the eyes of one man.' He thrust aside all rivalry now, instead concentrating on what she would have wanted. 'His name is Carl Thorek Silver-Blood. He was once King Balgruuf's Housecarl, and son of Thongvor. Find him, Joric. He is the only one who can help.' _If Idgrod is right, that is._ He felt sick lying to Joric; there was no certainty he would even care. He was a Silver-Blood after all, and now Djurien was forcing the boy on a quest that might see him killed.

Ravencrone nodded solemnly though, and ran off without another word. Djurien watched him go, and then turned to face his attackers. The rasp of steel echoed throughout the night as they drew theirs weapons, and Djurien watched them wearily. There were two of them now, but more were coming.

With a battle cry, Djurien leapt forward, parrying a blow to his head, and sweeping out the man's foot. He fell as the Nord twisted, blocking the other man's strikeand swinging round the opposite way to cut deeply into his neck. Screams rang out as blood splattered his clothes and face. Djurien spun round to thrust his point into the fallen man's throat, finishing him. As he stood, he saw more coming. They pounded through the trees, steel flashing. Djurien met them, quickly dodging a strike to his head, then parrying the return swing to his side. He pushed the blade away and attacked fiercely to trap the man against a tree. He stumbled, and Djurien hacked him down brutally. Then there was another behind him, and the Nord twisted to avoid the sword, catching it in between his waist, covered in leather, and his arm, while still facing towards the tree. With a savage tug, Djurien ripped the weapon from his opponent's grasp and swung to decapitate him with his sword. With lightning speed though, the man ducked and charged Djurien, slamming his into the tree, driving the wind from his chest.

The Nord sagged, but as the man pulled him up, he drove his dagger into his heart. It burst all the way through, such was the raw force behind it, and Djurien let him drop. He let out a heavy breath as his last opponent stepped forward, flipping his sword whimsically. It was the man in steel.

Depression raced through his mind, and Djurien heaved himself up properly to his feet. 'Who are you?'

The man wore no cloak, but a dark blue hood shrouded his face in darkness. 'An agent of the King.'

Idgrod's warning emerged again. _The King. _Djurien didn't suspect he could beat this man, and impending death made him as sharp as he imagined Idgrod would have been. 'If I'm going to die, don't be coy.'

'Nor will I, then.' He spoke with a refined accent, and had a condescending tone that irked Djurien. 'Call me the Knight, as you might call "him" the King.'

'Fine. Let's end this then.'

The Knight nodded, amused, and swung forward, but Djurien parried it easily. They stepped back, and then the Nord moved forward, thrusting at the Knight's chest. He dodged, but to Djurien surprise, and faster than he would have thought possible, the Knight moved forward, knocking down his sword, and swinging his sword towards his face with a backhand blow. Djurien ducked quickly, but before he could move, the Knight's gauntleted fist followed his own sword, slamming into Djurien's jaw. The force knocked the Nord off his feet, and pain numbed his face with fire.

Djurien collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily as the pain burned his nerves. The Knight strutted around him, sighing.

'Was it really too much to hope for a better fight? Come on, get up.' He kicked Djurien in the stomach and the latter groaned, but managed to pull himself up. Every second he stood was another brought for Joric, and revenge for his sister.

The Knight seemed to guess what he was thinking, and his eyes gleamed with malice as he spoke. 'That girl of yours, the younger daughter.' He moved closer. 'She cried like a bitch when I slit her throat,' he mimicked the next bit; 'from ear, to ear.'

Djurien's rage boiled over and he leapt forward, screaming. The Knight jerked back and drew up his blade to block the Nord's furious strikes. He swung low in retaliation, but Djurien kicked it off his boot and struck downwards. The Knight dodged, and swept out Djurien's leg, but the Nord rolled as he fell into the leaves, avoiding the Knight's following downward stroke. With a cry, Djurien caught the next strike on his blade and pulled the Knight down, throwing him over his body. The King's man landed heavily next to him, but regained his feet quickly and charged Djurien as he pulled himself up, wrestling him down into the ground. Torches began to flare up around them, and he knew he couldn't win now; _but I can take this bastard with me. _

Drawing his dagger, Djurien jerked it up, aiming for the Knight's throat. His reflexes were amazing, and he leapt back, rolling to regain his feet, blade in hand, as Djurien advanced with sword and dagger both. The Knight didn't wait for him though. He stepped forward, grabbing Djurien's sword hand, and blocking the dagger strike. He launched a vicious headbutt into the Nord's head and pain burst through his mind, leaving it dizzy and surrounded by dark fog. Then, he pressed his attack.

Djurien was led back as torches surrounded their duel, trying to step out of his current position, but the Knight wasn't playing anymore. He blocked him off swiftly, all the time their swords met in a ringing clash of steel. They flashed in the moonlight, and sweat began to run down Djurien's brow as he clumsily warded off his attacker. His blows were slowing though, and in a desperate last-ditch attempt to survive, he knocked aside the Knight's weapon and thrust forward with his sword. It was over then. His opponent spun round, missing the sword and ramming his elbow straight into Djurien's ribs. One cracked in a blast of red hot pain, and the move had ripped the Nord's hand from its grasp on the Knight's own sword hand. He whipped his blade across Djurien's head, and everything went black.

**I hope you enjoyed that. I wrote that at light speed, so I'm going to sit down and rest now. (It was run to write some combat again though.) **


	52. Their True Faces

**Casta again! It's been a while since we caught up with him, so here he is. **

**The thanks; to Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Yep, that sums it up. Why am I killing everyone? To show how dangerous the King is, because it builds suspense, and because it keeps you guys guessing. I am sorry about killing Jon, but it was a necessary plot point (sadly). Anyway, I'm glad you liked it! To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Well, I'm trying to cut down on my POV characters, because I'm swamped in them, and besides, Joric is wandering the wilderness, so, sorry, but there won't be a Joric POV. You'll know who the King is in due time. I'm really glad you liked the chapter though! Thanks to everyone who reviewed, etc! **

**Here it is. **

**Prefect Casta Allectus **

**Prefect Casta Victorus Gaius Allectus **pounded into the Imperial City on his horse like the devil was at his heels. _That said, it isn't_ _that far off the mark. _His defeat at the hands of the Thalmor had humbled his previous outlook; Casta had recognised their power, but even so… to lose to it had been more than he could handle. The Prefect had drawn together what remained of his army, and promoted Caro to lead them as they harassed the Thalmor and delayed them from reaching the capital. Before he had left, he had placed strict orders on no direct contact with the Thalmor in battle, else he lose the rest of his men. _No contact, _he reflected bitterly. It left a sour taste on his tongue, and he resented this weight hanging over him. But he couldn't brood too much; now it was up to him to formulate a plan with the Emperor to counter the Dominion. _Even so, it is going to be too late for the families in their path of destruction. _Casta's heart tightened as he galloped through the streets, empty save the odd wanderer. It seemed the whole capital was on edge as night rapidly approached; by now they would have heard of his defeat.

Casta drew up his horse and vaulted from its back as he reached Green Emperor Way. White Gold Tower loomed above him, like an angry parent, scolding him. Allectus shot it a guilty look and quickly raced up steps, passing by the guards with a quick step. He glanced around the cold stone corridors of the tower uneasily, as if they wanted to trap him, before taking a right, so that he could take the steps to the higher levels. But he suddenly realised that in his haste, Casta had no idea where the Emperor was, so he caught a bemused looking guard by the shoulder.

'I need to see the Emperor,' he said impatiently, with trace of building anxiety for Reman's reaction when they talked.

'He is in the Elder Council chamber, in session, sir,' the guard answered.

Casta nodded and strode to the door. He opened them quietly, not wishing to draw too much attention to himself, and stood by the side of the chamber. The Emperor was listening to a chancellor who was outlining his plans for the city during a siege, which was raising a few eyebrows, Casta noticed, but upon seeing him the Emperor cut the man off and dismissed the council. They looked none too pleased about it, but he gave a quiet word to a guard behind him, and they left grumbling. Casta watched them go uncomfortably. _He'll only alienate them like this, _Allectus reflected, but he pushed the thought from his mind as he descended the steps lining the outside of the massive chamber, into the Emperor's presence.

On seeing him, Reman's mouth turned up a little, but his eyes betrayed his apprehension. 'Prefect Allectus,' he said before Casta could speak. 'I am well aware of the situation now. Your second, Caro, sent me a raven.'

'Of course, Talos,' the Prefect acknowledged, bowing his head. 'We need to talk.'

The Emperor regarded him coldly. 'Then talk, but be quick. I have a war to fight.'

That irked Casta, but he continued regardless. 'I need more Legions if I am to combat the Dominion.' The request sounded stupid even to his own ears.

'More Legions,' Reman mused. He was still sitting in his throne, and he leaned back, nodding. 'But what can we _actually_ do with more, Prefect?' No doubt he meant to be threatening, but it just sounded anxious, and scared. Casta sympathised with him, even if it was not to be expected of an Emperor to be frightened.

'I fear that, well… in truth, nothing, Talos,' Allectus admitted. The truth sounded worse as it rang throughout the chamber.

'Nothing?' he demanded, panicked. 'Surely there is something we can do?'

'The Thalmor seem undefeatable on the battlefield, Talos.'

'But you've only fought _one_ battle, Prefect,' the Emperor countered with sudden anger. 'You failed,' he pointed out, which sent a stab of pain into Casta; 'but that does not mean you cannot win. The men will fight again?'

'Aye, Talos. If they have to.'

'Then make them, Prefect.' Reman's eyes were hard. 'We cannot lose. It is not an option.'

Casta was struck by his determination, but his melancholy was too deep to shift. 'You didn't see it as I did. One second, we were winning, and then, we were running.'

The Emperor looked down at his hands for a while, before glancing up again. 'We _have_ to win.'

'If we had more Legions, Talos, then maybe…' Casta trailed off, not daring to hope.

'I think I can help with that.' Count Marius Cairo stood by the door, and he stepped down confidently, surveying the scene. He knelt swiftly at the Emperor's feet, ignoring Casta. 'Talos Emperor, may I offer a suggestion?'

'As you will,' he allowed, glancing at Casta with an apprehensive look.

'The various Counts and Lords of Cyrodiil have already agreed to rally their men, and join them to the Legions. In addition,' he smiled sickly sweet;' the Breton's main force has arrived. I took the liberty of joining them to my men, while the Prefect here was unavailable. You don't mind, I hope, Casta?' He looked at him with a good-natured smile, but his eyes revealed a hungry pleasure.

Allectus swallowed his pride, and inclined his head. 'Of course not, Your Excellency. I am honoured by your sacrifice.'

'Don't be so gloomy,' Cairo said, slapping Casta's arm. 'We can still win this.'

'More than the Prefect thought a minute ago, isn't it?' the Emperor commented, raising an eyebrow.

'I was simply providing the most obvious outcome, Talos,' Casta replied evenly.

'The most cynical one, perhaps,' Cairo interrupted. 'We don't need that now, Prefect. The streets are rife with depression as it is.'

Allectus couldn't take this anymore. Here they were fighting a war to the death, while Cairo played politics. 'And you would know, wouldn't you, Your Excellency?' he growled, stepping forward. He was taller than the Imperial.

The Count's expression turned suddenly furious. 'Quiet, boy! What are you, but, a… a,' he struggled for the words as he looked over Casta murderously; 'an upjumped sewer rat, elevated far beyond his position. What right do you talk to me like that?'

'By right of arms! At least I earned my title.'

'Enough!' the Emperor barked. Casta had almost forgotten he was there. 'This won't do. Cool down, both of you. Cairo, see to your men. The assistance is most welcome. Allectus,' he turned his smouldering, dark eyes on Casta; 'go home. I'll call on you soon.'

Furious, the Prefect stiffly bowed and strode from the room, pushing past the Count. He ignored everything around him as he burst from the council chamber, into the night air of the capital, his rage boiling around him. He could barely contain his frustration as he played back the conversation. _Fucking politics! That's all it's ever about. _Casta glanced back in their direction, now covered by the main doors of the tower as he made his way down the steps, wishing looks could kill. As his anger subsided, guilt soon replaced it. He had barely done anything to help his men; _yet Cairo did. _Casta suspected, much to his own chagrin, that his anger had partly been a result of the fact that where he had failed his men, Cairo had succeeded. It was a sour realisation, but Casta suspected that it was truer than he would have liked.

The Prefect was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he barely noticed when he found himself in front of his door. He touched the wood fondly, pushing away all his bad memories of late, reflecting on how simple it was; in reality, it was far too austere for the Prefect of the Legions. No doubt he had been assigned a town house somewhere in the city, but for now, this would do. It didn't bode well to think of the future anyway.

Casta pushed open the door, and closed it behind him. It was dark, but it only took him a second to find a match and light a candle. The fire sent a small pool of light out into the vast, foreboding darkness, and Casta took it in his hand as he made his way up the stairs, treading carefully, as if not to disturb something he wasn't quite sure about. Something that wasn't his.

Casta entered Silva's room first, and stood by the door, watching as she breathed lightly, snuggling her head into her pillow. She was so sweet, Allectus forgot about the darkness surrounding him completely. He moved into the room, and gave her a gentle kiss, before leaving. Then, it was Maria's room.

There was light under the door, which surprised Casta for a moment. He stepped back, and that was when he heard the noises. His blood froze, his jaw tightened. His breathing quickened and he suddenly burst into the room with furious rage surrounding him. He was on top of her, the man, on top of Maria. When he noticed Casta, she let out a gasp, and fell back. The man turned, hair over his face, which quickly turned to a mixture of angry fear when he realised who the newcomer was.

'What the hell is this!' Casta demanded, his anger rolling free like dark thunderclouds. His hands balled into fists, but before he could do anything, the door downstairs crashed open. Casta ripped his eyes from Maria's cowed look and raced to the stairs. There were men down there, moving through the house with practised discipline. They were dressed in the garb of the Penitus Oculatus. Allectus moved back, into his room, fear pounding through his veins, driving away any of his previous anger. It didn't take a genius to realise why they were here.

Their cries rang out below, and he could hear Silva as she woke up. Casta slammed the door shut as they came up their stairs, and he heard commotion across the corridor. Silva cried out again, driving Casta out from any thoughts of hiding. He threw open the door, slamming it into one of the men who fell back, and tripped over the tiny balcony overlooking the main hall to its hard floor ten feet below. Casta moved across the hall screaming, and whipped out his fist into one of the Penitus with all the force he could manage, but the other man shrugged it off and returned a punch to Casta's stomach. He fell to his knees winded, and the man kicked him over onto his back. He launched another blow into Casta's ribs, and one broke, before throwing him down the stairs.

It was all a blur of colour and force as he fell, rolling to land on the ground in a blast of pain. His vision was blurred, and his ears were ringing as Casta spat out blood, and moaned, unable to pick himself up. He moved his hand, and leg, relief coursing through him as he realised he wasn't paralysed, and that his spine hadn't broken, but then the pain pushed the thought from his mind in a blast of fire. Casta let out a shallow breath as he was pulled up by strong hands, to come face to face with Cassia Derionne, the Prefect of Laws. _Naturally, she would had influence over the Oculatus,_ Allectus thought with a resigned sigh.

'Casta. It's good to see you again.'

He had no time for bullshit, not after everything that had just happened, and his response was sharp. 'What do you want?'

Derionne never played around anyway. 'You are under arrest, Prefect, for misconduct during battle, and for trying to see a Dominion victory.' The charge left him speechless, and he just shook his head as he tried to understand what exactly was going on.

'The Emperor? What… what has he said?'

'Count Cairo thought it best if he took matters into his own hands for this one. The Emperor has been informed of a traitor months ago. We were just waiting for…' he paused, as if trying to decide on the right word; 'the right evidence.'

Humiliation, and frustration filled Casta's mind; he had taken their words and actions at face value when he had first met them all. It had been a fatal mistake. 'You were waiting for me to lose a battle,' he guessed. Cassia's nod confirmed it. 'What do you plan to do with me?'

Derionne leant in close, glancing from side to side at her waiting Oculatus. 'We all know you are Empire's best general. Cairo wouldn't approve, but to kill you would be suicide. No, we just need you out of the picture for a while.'

'Wait,' Casta said, surprised. 'What do you mea-'

And then it all went black.

**The good guys just never seem to catch a break, so they. Please review, and I'll give you a hug (you know, if you want one.) **


	53. A Former Housecarl

**Well, this was slightly depressing at the start, and action-packed at the end. Song of the moment, Shadows and Regrets by Yellowcard. It basically sums up Ralof's life right now. **

**The thanks; To Delphine hater, the Penitus weren't raping Casta's daughter or wife. The guy was just another dickhead. Why is he being framed? It's not all that special, but you'll find out later. Alsfur and Thorek surviving? Okay, well, we'll see. Thanks for the review! To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I know. Stupid politics, right. Wow, you don't like the Empire right? Okay, fair enough. Cairo just wants to win, admittably in a very selfish way. Casta's wife was sleeping with some guy. It doesn't much matter. Thanks to everyone for the reviews and stuff! **

**Ralof will be getting a bigger role from now on. Welcome back the Wood, the only surviving POV character from Season Unending! Whoa, isn't that just a little depressing. I suck to my characters. Also, something else, that I mention in the story, I never even realised how much Jon actually said 'It doesn't matter now.' If there's a Wiki for this, that'll be the quote at the top of his page. Just saying. It was just something that I wrote subconsciously. Anyway, moving on. **

**Please review. Seriously. **

**Carl Ralof Wood **

**Carl Ralof Wood woke trying **to run. His breath came out fast and cold, as icy as the look Jon had given him when he turned away, back into the darkness. Ralof had tried to reach him, but he had fallen through the floor, into the unfeeling stone, far below. Wood looked around, wiping the sweat off his face, taking in his surroundings of his tent, before sitting up and swinging his legs off his bunk. Ralof put his face into his hands as he thought about the dream. Terrible guilt submerged him with emotion as his body began to rack with sobs at the thought of Jon's death. _If only I'd been there… _

It sucked away at what little strength Ralof had left, leaving him empty and devoid of anything. Worse than that was the realisation that he could have fixed it all, if he let Thorek Silver-Blood take that shot. Ralof just knew that, he_ knew_ that, if that shot had been allowed to loose, Thongvor would be dead, and Jon would be alive. That made it all worse, and thrust him back down into the guilt that ravaged his mind; the knowledge that, directly or not, it was his fault Jon was dead. Ralof let out a shuddering breath, and then pounded his fist into his bed to relieve the sudden anger at his failure that surged up like a winter wind, threatening to destroy his emotions in a storm of fury. His nerves were fried, and his skin hurt, as if the pain was spreading from his heart, all across his body. Ralof gritted his teeth, and then buried his head in his hands again as the guilt rushed back up.

Ralof tried to push it away, but it wouldn't go, so he stood and walked around his tent in a furious circle, trying to expel his energy into the ground, and bury the pain with it, but it stuck there like sand in a boot. Thongvor Silver-Blood's smug face came back into his vision, taunting him, and Ralof lashed out at air, trying to rip him apart. And then he was gone, and Wood slumped to his knees, defeated.

Ralof hated Thongvor. He was the cause of everything that was wrong in the world; he had killed Jon, and then played the hypocrite as he carried his body away from the field. His eyes gloated at his success, and Ralof's failure, but today he would get his revenge. The Silver-Blood army would come, and Wood was going to destroy it, so that there was nothing left, leaving them to burn in oblivion as some small comfort for Jon.

Ralof let out a breath of frustration as the guilt settled back in again, and he paced to his wooden chest, opening it to reveal parchment and ink. He had only learnt to write a few years ago, and even now his hand was messy and scribbled, but nonetheless he brought out a half-finished letter, meant for his sister Gerdur, Thane of Riverwood. Looking back at it, the letter was emotional, messy and incoherent; it didn't even make much sense, but now he had started, Ralof felt he had to finish it. With shaking fingers, Wood reached for his quill, laying the parchment upon the top of his wooden chest, wondering what he should say, or how he could finish it. Nothing came, and Ralof dug deeper for something to say, but still, nothing but more guilt.

'Carl Ralof?'

Wood turned to see a young boy standing by the door, looking shy. 'What is it?' he asked, not unkindly.

'Jarl Stormcloak says its time to prepare.'

_Jarl Stormcloak, _Ralof mused bitterly. _Alsfur. When did the boy become the man? _'Tell him I'll be ready,' he said sharply. The messenger ran off before anything more could be said. Ralof sighed, and then shoved the letter back into the chest. He stood as the horns of war began to blare out across the camp. Most of the tents had already been packed away, but some of the leading officers had been allowed to keep theirs until the final stages of preparation were being made. Ralof smiled briefly as he thought about Jon would say about his role as a 'leading officer', but then his mood just soured further as he realised that wasn't even true anymore. Alsfur hadn't even given him command of a small force of men; he gave those jobs to his Theyns. _Different Jarl, different times. _

Ralof made his way to his armour and eyed it with a dark stare. It looked back at him innocently and Wood quickly pulled the chainmail and boiled leather jerkin off the stand and threw them to the floor. Ralof sniffed and realised he was about to develop a cold, just in time for the battle, before pulling on his steel covered greaves, which covered his shins, and then pulled the, now soiled, boiled leather over his head, covering his shirt. Then he pulled his chainmail over that, tied his belt and fixed his bracers. Then, the hard part came; Jon's shield.

Alsfur had inherited Kodaav, and all of his father's armour, or what ever had been left of it after he had taken such a beating from the battle. Carrying his body from the field, Ralof could only imagine what he had gone through, alone, where he should have been at his side. Wood pounded his fist to his thigh as he struggled to contain fresh tears. _I should have been there. _Ralof could just imagine Jon alone, fighting through hordes of men, looking to his Housecarl for relief, but he was gone, riding a horse to fucking safety!

The emotions exploded in a rush as Ralof realised what he had been doing as Jon died; he had been running. Well, looking for his Jarl, most correctly, but still; he had had the horse, and the freedom, while Jon was dying alone. But that wasn't true either, was it? _He died with Alsfur, defending him. But was it even the right choice? _Ralof instantly scolded himself; Jon would never allow that. Alsfur was their only hope now; Ulfgar was just a boy, and Ysold must be a shell of her former self, torn apart by grief. _I know I am. _

Ralof forced down his thoughts and emotions viciously, trying to put on a blank face typical of Jon, but it was impossible. _How did he ever do it? _Wood snatched up his war axe, light and deadly, and attached it to his belt with his dagger. Jon had provided him with his much desired claymore, or greatsword, when they first set off for war months ago. A quality one was very expensive to make, and far more difficult to wield, but Jon had paid for it all. Ralof hadn't really held one in years; he had never needed to. It didn't suit corridors, due to its length, but on a battlefield it was devastating. _Something he was counting on when I stood by his side… _

Ralof strapped it to his back, slung the shield round as well, and took up his helm. He also snatched his amulet of Talos from the bed, and then ducked from his tent quickly. Squires were waiting outside to pack it away, and as soon as he gave the nod they leapt into action, tearing it apart like Alsfur used to do with his meat. _Just not half as fast, _he mused_. _Ralof sighed again and strode away, out through the rocks surrounding the main path.

They were camped out on the small cliffs that surrounded the main path, nestled in the gorge, where Alsfur planned to make his attack. Ralof fingered his amulet of Talos as he looked around, taking in the armoured warriors; he and become quite religious since Jon's death. Most Nords held very strongly to Talos, the patron God of mankind and founder of the Empire, but Jon had never been particularly religious, less so than many other Nords. That said, it would be fair to say that the younger generations, like Alsfur, were not the most devoted of servants to the Gods anyway. _They'll take them up later, _he mused. Even so, Jon had been especially cynical about the Gods, which was strange, seeing as he was one now. _He'd laugh himself back into a grave if he knew. _But then, he had to, being a God. The strange conundrum made Ralof smile slightly, and he drew strength from that. _It doesn't matter now, anyway, _he thought, echoing Jon's words.

Alsfur was standing on a rocky ledge, overlooking his men as the main force lined up in a battle column below on the stony path nestled between the two rocky walls that might be their death, or saviour. Ralof eyed them suspiciously, as if they were going to suddenly betray them. _I've had more than enough of that for one lifetime. _Siddgeir flashed back through his mind as well. Ralof's hands tightened at the thought.

The former Housecarl made his way up to Alsfur, who didn't acknowledge him at first, instead responding to a message from one of his bannerman. He sent the response off and turned to Ralof with a curt nod.

'What is it?'

Ralof sniffed at his tone. 'I was hoping to accompany you on the battlefield.'

'I already have a Housecarl.'

'An extra shield then?' Wood offered, slightly desperately.

'My father's?' he noticed, watching it with a dark glare. 'It didn't do him much good.'

'Alsfur,' Ralof snapped angrily, but the Jarl cut him off.

'Go find a place on the battlefield. I don't care where you go. Why don't you try and kill Silver-Blood. Fulfil your oath this time,' Alsfur finished icily.

That hurt. Ralof looked down, guilt washing through him. He wanted to get angry, but he wasn't Jon, and so with a small nod the former Housecarl turned away and trudged down to a lower section of the stone cliffs. Men were already grouping together in areas around the rocky spikes that provided cover, led by their Theyns and Carls. Ralof made his way to one of the main groups on the fringes, under the command of Thane Amol. The stocky man gave him a smile; at least someone knew his worth.

'Carl Ralof. It's good to see your face.'

The former Housecarl forced a smile. 'I can't say the same about yours.'

The Thane frowned, but Ralof moved away, further into the mess of pillars and spaces they were hiding in, so he was on the edge of the impending battle. Alsfur's fake column of men reached a little past his position; they were going to reach the end of the valley soon, where Silver-Blood would no doubt cut them off at some point ahead. It was a small gamble that they wouldn't leave the ambush groups behind in their march, but they had little other choice.

Ralof settled down and watched as clouds lent an overcast feel to his already pathetic mood. He sighed, and trained his eyes on the path behind the column, which had began to move. Suddenly, a dot of black appeared on the path. It quickly started resolving itself into a huge force of men, all fully armoured and ready to move. By the time they noticed Alsfur's men were also armed, it would be too late. _It seems not even Thongvor Silver-Blood can think of everything. _Even so, as they marched quickly, he could see they were going to far outnumber Alsfur's own army.

Ralof drew his greatsword clumsily, and drew back into the rocks to hide himself. Silver-Blood was approaching at speed, and horsemen began to pick their way from the infantry and race towards Alsfur's column. Instantly, Ralof knew if those horsemen hit, it would all be over; they would create such disruption among Stormcloak's force in one clean charge, that there would be no coming back. Ralof looked for Amol, but he couldn't see him now, hidden as he was among the rocks. His head snapped back round as the drumming of hooves on the stony floor grew louder. _The ambushers, us, have to hold until the main force engages Alsfur's, but if we stay… _

Racked with indecision, Ralof watched as the horsemen drew nearer, before making a snap decision, and a massive gamble. He quickly pulled several men waiting near him, and told them what to do. The horsemen were drawing nearer and the men of Alsfur's column were starting to turn with horrified expressions and wide eyes as they beheld their coming doom. The horsemen were almost on them when Ralof leapt forward, out of the rocks.

Everything slowed as Ralof fell; his heart was beating faster, and his blood hammered through his body. Only now did the fear begin to leach his strength, but it was a futile method of self-preservation, because he was already among them. With a roar, Ralof swung his greatsword, down into a man's shoulder, where it stuck, trapped halfway through his body. They both fell to the stone ground, stumbling the horse, and for a moment Ralof curled up, waiting to be crushed, but the charge never came. His men had followed him, and broken the horsemen's impetus, while the men of Alsfur's column screamed war cries as they attacked the horsemen viciously, not letting them get over the surprise. As Ralof picked himself up, he saw Silver-Blood's infantry closing in. To his relief, Amol had held back with most of his men, and they waited now, as the main force approached Ralof and his men. The Carl turned to the column as the cries of battle began to ring out from the other side of the path, obviously the second Silver-Blood force. They glanced back nervously, but Ralof caught their attention.

'Lines, now!' He wrenched his greatsword from the dead man, and raised it, ready to fight. 'Don't give an inch, and Talos help me, we will avenge the Dragonborn!'

The men took up the cry of Dragonborn and Stormcloak while Ralof replaced his greatsword for his axe and shield. Silver-Blood's men broke into a run as they drew closer, and launched themselves into Ralof's hastily formed line.

The impact was like the force of a battle-ram, and the Stormcloak men fell back, trying to hold up their shields. Ralof swung his axe wildly and it threw a man back as the soldiers began to hold their positions, and present an unbroken shield wall. Ralof edged forward, Jon's shield shining as it took its place among the others.

'Push!' Ralof shouted and the men threw their weights behind their shields, while stabbing and hacking with a variety of weapons. Silver-Blood's charge was gone, and the fight became a frenzied melee as each side tried to gain dominance. Ralof's blood was pumping fast now, and he could feel the energy running through his arms as he hacked at faces and hands with his axe. Before long, his armour was specked with blood.

Ralof glanced up at the rocks, but Amol hadn't moved yet, as were his orders. _We just need to hold out a little bit longer. _They were giving ground slightly, so as to better trap Silver-Blood. Wood turned his attention back to the battle as an ugly Nord appeared above his shield and tried to wrench it away. With an angry snarl, Ralof cut down with his axe, severing his fingers, and he fell back, howling.

'Hold!' he cried, throwing out his shield and knocking down a few men, who screamed as they were trapped underneath the press of stamping feet. Heat started building up in the enclosed space, and sweat began to run down Ralof's brow. Worse than that though, he realised they were losing.

It was a steady process, slow, but lumbering like a giant, unstoppable unless something changed quickly. The ground they had given had set off a chain reaction, and now they were beginning to be crushed back into the force fighting on the opposite side of the path, which would see them all down into oblivion if something didn't change. Ralof glanced up at the cliffs, but still Amol didn't move, as their force was pressed back into the other, like two waves crushing the object trapped in the middle. _That's us, _Ralof reflected drily.

The Silver-Blood men could already sense victory; it might take hours, but it was going to happen, and they pressed forward with renewed vigour as Ralof's strength began to seep away. They had been fighting for longer than he thought, and his muscles were beginning to weaken.

Suddenly, a shield flashed out and caught his jaw, swiping a long gash along it, where his helmet failed to protect him. Ralof let out a growl, ignoring the sudden pain, but he was pushed back. A sword cut his arm and he let out a cry, before a hammer glanced off his shoulder, sending a wave of red pain through it. The former Housecarl stepped back, stumbling, and he fell. The press crushed him from above, but he managed to force himself up as it suddenly stopped and became still. In front of him, Ralof could hear the cries of men; cries of surprise. He forced himself up and forward to see Amol's men laying waste to everything around them. However, the Silver-Blood men were rallying, and Ralof was damned if they were going to lose this chance.

'Forward now! Fucking forward! Kill them all!' Wood broke from the line and started laying out around himself wildly, tearing men apart as he screamed and swiped. The men started following his example, and the Silver-Blood men fell back with cries of terror, as Amol's force started pressing forward, taking on the strain of a line formation. But that was already breaking up. Some Silver-Blood men had been left behind in the attack, and as Amol took on the main force, small skirmishes started taking place in the gap between Alsfur and Blackmoore's side, and Amol's.

Ralof turned, to see a man watching him. His nose was bloody, but otherwise he was unhurt, and he held a longsword in his hand, with a shield in the other. Before he could do anything, Wood moved forward, swinging with his axe. The man caught it on his shield and thrust out with his sword, but Ralof knocked it aside. They fell back, testing each other's movements, and then the other man stepped forward, feinting to Ralof's left, before sweeping his leg. It was all the Carl needed. Wood ignored the feint; it was too obvious, and slammed down his shield to catch the strike to his shin. At the same time he swung out his arm, catching the man's neck, just below his helm. He fell, choking pitifully on his own blood, and Ralof thought how lucky he was that the men hadn't been wearing a gorget. _But that's the preserve of the rich, and the Housecarls. _A spasm of guilt flashed back through his mind, but it was quickly broken by something else.

Ralof turned at the sound of the horn and his eyes quickly locked onto the banner; the Jarl of Markarth's sigil. _Silver-Blood. _He started moving forward, but then a sound caught his ear and he instinctively ducked, under the heavy axe that flew over his head. Without hesitating, Ralof swept out Jon's shield, whipping out his attacker's legs from under him. He fell to the stone with a crack and Ralof's axe followed him, burying itself into his brain with a sharp smash and spurt of blood and bone. Carl Wood yanked it back up, and looked around. His heart sank as he noticed Alsfur.

The Jarl had been pushed back and his entire side had dissolved into a frenzy of one on one fights. Even as he watched, Alsfur emerged from the sea of warriors, retreating quickly. The Nord he was fighting came out after him, leading a savage attack. No helm covered his face, and Ralof recognised him instantly; Thorek Silver-Blood.

He was dressed in mail now, with a grey surcoat, embroidered with silver thread covering his chest, the sabre-cat of Markarth picked out in black. Plate covered his shoulders and arms, and a sturdy shield was on his right, with a flashing silver blade in his left. It was that sword which led the way, whipping out towards Alsfur's face as he tried to back-track, huddling beneath his own shield, lashing out occasionally to fend off the young Silver-Blood. It wasn't enough though. Behind him, Thongvor Silver-Blood had appeared from his men, urging them on. Ralof might be able to reach him, if he was lucky, and then he could avenge Jon. Hot fire ran through his blood at their thought, but then he glanced back at Alsfur, and his breath caught. _My oath, or Jon's son? _There wasn't a real choice.

Ralof started sprinting towards Alsfur and Thorek. He pushed aside men, and replaced his axe with his greatsword, ready to deliver a finishing blow. He swung it up and around, towards the back of Thorek's head with a bloody grin. Amazingly though, the other Nord dodged to the side and let it hit the ground, before slamming down his shield to hold the greatsword din place, and then spun, whipping out his sword.

Ralof let out a cry of surprise and ducked, but before he could move, Thorek kicked him. Hard. The former Housecarl fell to the ground, and the wind was knocked out of him. He coughed, and started crawling back as Thorek advanced. His grin was arrogant, and he spun his sword idly. All of a sudden, Alsfur grabbed him, and tried to plunge his sword into Silver-Blood's back, but he was too quick. Thorek twisted him over, and Alsfur slammed against the stone, rolling slightly, his sword falling away.

Ralof took the opportunity and rushed forward, lifting Thorek with a blind roar, and then throwing him down, driving in his knee as they fell. Silver-Blood let out a cry as it rammed into his chest, and Ralof drew his dagger, plunging it down with all his strength. Thorek caught it with one hand, the quickly threw his other hand up to support the weight, dropping his sword. He can't have been much taller than Ralof himself, but he was very strong, and he held it as Alsfur advanced to finish him. Thorek's eyes flitted to the new danger for only a moment, before he suddenly pulled the dagger down, and Ralof with it, whipping up his head to crack it against Wood's face. It was well placed and the Carl fell back, holding his nose as a strange swooping pain made him feel sick. Blood leaked from his nose, but he managed to brush it off, fuelled by the thought of danger.

Ralof pulled himself up, drawing his axe and holding his nose gingerly. Another whoosh of pain swept through him, and he grimaced, making his way towards Thorek. By this time, Silver-Blood was facing Alsfur with his sword in hand, parrying a rough thrust to his stomach. He grinned when he noticed Ralof and struck out forward, throwing Stormcloak off balance, and then swung his sword to cut down Wood.

The Carl brought up his axe and blocked it, jarring his arm, before dodging back to avoid the next swing. His nose was on fire now, and blood ran freely down into his mouth. Another burst of pain, this one icy cold, flicked up his arm, indicating the presence of a cut. Thorek was too fast though, and he moved like a water dancer, back and forth, never staying still. Ralof knew he'd have to break out or face the same fate as Alsfur.

With a cry he caught the flat of Thorek's blade between his axe and hand, the palm covered in strip of thick leather, then shoved his weight forward. It threw Silver-Blood off, and Ralof seized the advantage, swinging forward wildly. Quick as a bloody snake though, Thorek dodged, and caught Ralof in a headlock. The Carl tried to twist free, but it was too late. Silver-Blood's grip tightened, and Ralof thrashed, panic soaring through his mind, even as it darkened. Thorek readied himself to break Wood's neck, but then Alsfur was there. Silver-Blood pushed Ralof up to guard himself, and Stormcloak managed to divert his blade. Thorek dropped Wood, much to his relief, and swept up his sword, as a horn echoed through the gory battlefield. Silver-Blood frowned, and stepped back, before turning away and running to join his men. It took Ralof a second to realise what was happening, as he lay sprawled on the ground, but when it did, he couldn't believe his ears. It was the sound of retreat; for Thongvor Silver-Blood.

Ralof felt a presence next to him, and looked up to Alsfur's hand by his side. He took it, and Stormcloak pulled him up. They stared at each other for a while.

'Congratulations, my Jarl,' Ralof began, but Alsfur cut him off by hugging him. Wood was dazed for a second, but then he returned it and they broke apart, grinning like fools.

'Thank you, Ralof. I owe you my life.'

He turned sombre as he remembered Jon. 'I owe you a lot more.'

'No, you don't,' Alsfur said fiercely. They fell silent for a few seconds, and Ralof looked around. The men were taking up the cries of victory, and it sounded all around them. The Thanes and Theyns would be here soon to honour their Jarl, and battle leader. He looked around, drinking it all in for a second, before asking the question that had been on his mind since he had spotted Alsfur fighting Thorek. 'Why were you so broken up?'

Alsfur turned grim, and his voice took on a bitter note. 'You can thank Thane Blackmoore for that cock-up.'

'What?' Ralof asked, surprised. 'That doesn't seem like him.'

'The man's a coward,' Alsfur concluded in a tone typical of Jon. 'I'll see him in court for treason.'

'No, you can't be serious,' Ralof objected, but Stormcloak cut him off again.

'Maybe I not,' he agreed. 'But something has to be done. I can't figure it out until we get to Windhelm. From there, I'll see what's happening.'

'Don't be hasty, Alsfur.'

'I won't,' he promised, looking dismal. 'What will I say to Erik and Tavia?' That last question was quiet, but before Ralof could answer, the Thanes had arrived, and he was pushed back into the background again.

**Please, please review! This took a while to write, and I've got exams coming up, so reviews would really make my day! **


	54. Ghosts of the Past

**A very important chapter for Assur this time. His next one should be fun though. I wanted to get this out sooner, but it was difficult to write, until I got on to the last bit. Anyway, hope its good. **

**The thanks; to To Grevian, thanks for the Favourite and Follow on Dragonblood. To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Okay, I get it. You just hate the Medes. You know, the Thalmor suck more. Thanks for the exam luck. Thongvor didn't know what Thorek was doing, but Thorek should have (in his POV) just finished them off. Oh well, good for Team Stormcloak! Oh, yeah, they will have to be very careful now. To Blade Assassin, thanks for the Favourites and other stuff! To jjaudon, thanks for the Favourite. Thanks to Wired Dragon, also for the Favourite. Thanks to Delphine hate for the review! Thanks to everyone! **

**Also, thanks for all the reviews of last time. Nice one. **

**Assur Winter **

**Assur Winter sat still, staring **at his hands. A wave of emotions had greeted him at the news, but he wasn't sure which was worse; the fear, or satisfaction of his father coming to him. The elder Winter had commanded his presence at a meeting, peaceful, to discuss what rapidly seemed to be war terms, like the college was a castle under siege. _It might as well be. _They had closed off the entrance, and set mages on the door, ready to attack anyone who came too close. All the food they could find in Winterhold had been moved into the college days before, when the people had originally retreated into the stone fortress. _But it isn't a fortress. _There was only one entrance and a weak iron gate, at the end of a long bridge. If they were actually warriors they might be able to hold Father off there, but the truth was, if any of Assur's men tried to fight Father's soldiers, they would be cut to pieces. So, to all extents and purposes, this was a castle under siege.

Assur stood heavily, and made his way from the Archmage's office, down the steps, thinking about everything that had happened over the last few days. After he had killed the Archmage, things had gone into a panic. Assur had claimed the Dark Elf had fled, and he had to wounds to prove that they had fought, but in the end he had been defeated and disappeared. No one believed him, not really, and admitting to losing to the Archmage had nicked Assur's pride, but for now Father was the great threat to their lives. The Dark Elf's death was old news for now.

Malur had proved useful for once, in that he had actually managed to organise the people to get them into the college. Some had stayed, such was their fear of magic, but Assur didn't care; if they wanted to die, so be it. In truth, most of the organisation was due to Birna; she had cajoled Malur into actually working, and the people were eager to help escape their murderous Jarl, and so from there it had been easy. Now, they were all safe and sound, even as the lions beat at the door.

On reaching ground floor, Assur was assaulted by Onmund, who rushed to his side. 'You've heard, right?' he asked anxiously.

Assur managed to contain his own doubts with a steady expression. 'Where do you think I'm going?'

The other Nord nodded. 'Right. Do you want a guard?'

That struck Assur as unusual, but he found himself nodding. 'Find some well turned out mages to escort me, if you could,' he added upon seeing Onmund's affronted face. The other Nord nodded and strode off, while Assur shook his head. He seemed to have become the unofficial leader of their resistance, yet everytime he tried to use the power he should have been given, people shied away. That would change soon though, once Father had been dealt with.

Two mages appeared at his side in nice robes, but Assur couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. They didn't look all that intimidating. With them came Mirabelle Ervine, officially the Archmage's second in command, back when he was alive. She looked angry.

'What is this, Assur?' she screeched, indignantly.

'I'm going to see my Father, and discuss terms for peace,' he replied coolly.

'And you think you have the power to broker that peace?'

Assur stopped, and turned his icy white eyes on her. 'I don't know. Do I have the power?' For a second they just watched each other, but Mirabelle backed down quickly enough. It was enough for both of them to know how things worked now. 'Join me, if you want?' Assur offered stiffly. He didn't want her coming, yet Ervine began walking with them as they strode across the college courtyard.

Assur knew something would have to be done soon; if they survived this, he reflected with a rush of fear, leadership elections would be held for a new Archmage. As a Scholar, he was entitled to take part, and he intended to win. No one else was as powerful as him, or had the right. If history was to believed, the Winter's had helped found the college; that gave him more right than anyone. The rest were just pretenders.

They exited through the gate and made their way along the narrow bridge that connected the college to the town. The wind was light, and the sky clear, making the descent somewhat more pleasurable than last time. Even so, Assur still stayed clear of the edges of the bridge, and watched his step carefully.

Father was waiting at the end, on the outskirts of Winterhold. Behind him, in the town, men were setting up tents, as if this was some kind of military siege. He sat on a horse, with his some of his Thanes behind him, his eyes cold and bloodshot. When he spotted Assur, they narrowed, and his lip curled, but when he noticed the mages he leaned back nervously, trying to hide his fear. That gave welcome courage to Assur, who stepped forward more confidently. Even so, his voice betrayed him. It didn't come out with the authority he wanted, rather a slightly submissive whisper, filling Assur with dark embarrassment and anger.

'Hello, Father.'

'We are here to discuss peace terms,' Mirabelle interrupted, moving forward, but Korir cut her off.

'And I am here to talk to my,' he paused, which embarrassed Assur further; 'son. I don't care for any of you, freaks.'

Mirabelle looked like she wanted to fight, but their swords encouraged her not to, and she fell silent. Korir looked around pleasantly now he had gotten his way.

'Assur, you're coming with me.' He turned to Mirabelle disdainfully. 'Bring back the rest of my people, witch, and I won't burn the college to the ground.'

That line flared up in recognition in Assur's mind, and curiosity overcame him. 'Burn the college? Like before?' The words were out before he could stop them, but now they were, Assur stepped forward, looking up questioningly at Father.

Korir, for his part, pursed his lips before speaking. 'Before?' he sneered. 'I think you're confused.'

'No, I'm not,' Assur insisted. 'You tried to burn down the college before.'

'Quiet, boy,' he warned quietly. 'One more word, and I'll-'

'What? Disinherit me? Kill me?' Assur raised his eyebrows. 'I don't think you have the spine.'

Korir's eyes turned furious, and before his son could do anything, he slapped him, throwing the younger Winter to the ground. 'There are things you don't understand, and never will. Nor do you have the right to. Now, I'll ask you one more time; either you come now, or we'll see if the college does burn this time, and you won't be spared, Assur. Make your choice,' he barked.

Winter glared up at his father from the ground, and wiped the blood from his split lip. The he rose, fire leaping to his hands, and surrounding his fists in shimmering heat. 'How about _I_ finish you here, Father?'

Korir jerked back, scared, and then furious as he realised what Assur had done. 'Tonight then.' He turned his horse and his men followed him, back to the encampment spawned throughout the town.

Assur watched him go, releasing his hold on the magic with a weary sigh. He was dazed; there was going to be a battle, and people might die. More importantly, he might have to kill his father. Now, it came to it, he wasn't so sure he wanted to carry out the deed, and be cursed as kinslayer. He glanced at Mirabelle, who was pale with fear. She only gave him a tiny nod.

_**The path was narrow, but**__out of the small hills and cliffs he was passing through_**, **_huge plains spread across the land, filled with a sea of yellow grass. He had a horse, but it was a poor one, only a loan in truth. It would do though. Assur trotted along with the sun at his back, and a light wind caressing his face. It sent a pleasant feeling throughout the whole land, and lightened his mood considerably. Suddenly everything changed as quickly as a summer storm. A sound pricked Assur's ear and he turned, only to see a club slam into his face. He fell, his vision a mess of black and white, red blood soaking into the soil. Pain washed through him, but he gritted his teeth, which was strange for Assur. He tried to stand, but another club broke across his back and he let out a cry as he fell, trying to ward them off. They came again though, and he had no time to fight, or really respond; it was all so sudden. Assur swung out wildly, but if he hit a man, he didn't know, because another club broke his ribs. He fell, awash with agony, but didn't cry out; he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Then, a women appeared, and everything turned white. _

_Assur awoke walking, like before been some twisted daydream. He was striding through a large hall, anxiety ramming against his mind, and up some steps. He paced through corridors until he came to a door, where a guard bowed deeply. Assur ignored him, to burst into a bedroom, fear racing through his heart. And then he awoke. _

'**Assur? Hello, Assur?' **

**Assur Winter **woke with a start, to see Brelyna's face staring down at him, anxiously. The dream came back briefly, but he ignored it. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and shook his head, trying to regain his bearings.

'What is it?'

'Your father is ready.'

Icy fear chilled his nerves, and his legs suddenly felt too heavy, like they were blocks of ice. His breathing began to come out rapidly, but Assur managed to calm quickly with thoughts of Birna, and rose, brushing off his robes. He must have fallen asleep in them. Birna was actually here as well, looking fearful, and Onmund. Assur stared at them all, wondering what he should do. Luckily, the other mage did it for him.

'We're ready to fight, if we have to,' Onmund said, looking upset. 'The women and children will be under Birna's care, while we fight Jarl Winter.'

Assur nodded, and sank back down, despair consuming him. 'How did it come to this?'

Birna put her arms around him, and kissed his shoulder lightly. 'Your father is as harsh as his name. He couldn't be reasoned with. It isn't your fault.'

'Korir _Winter_,' Assur said, tasting the name. 'It seems I have no father.' He stood, fire in his eyes. 'Let's get this over with.' Winter kissed Birna lightly, trying to convey all his worry in that single touch and then abruptly strode from the room, revealed to be his bedroom in the towers reserved for Scholars. Brelyna and Onmund followed him out into the winds that surrounded the college at night. Fires twinkled below; clearly Father had no doubts about making an entrance. His men were lining up, a hundred strong, against those townsfolk with bows and the mages of the college, all grim faced as they realised they were about to commit treason. _Well, it's either that or die. _

He ran to the main gate, where Tolfdir was watching the bridge. Mages lined the wall along the sides of the bridge, and Assur could guess that the peasant archers had been set on the towers above. Hovering balls of light cast a glow over everything within fifty metres, meaning Korir wouldn't be able to escape notice when drew near to the bridge. Glancing around, everyone looked scared, and they shuffled uncomfortably as they waited. _But then, what could we expect from a bunch of farmers and students?_

'Assur,' Tolfdir greeted, his mouth tight. 'This is not what we are meant to do.'

'I know,' he replied. 'But we don't have a choice now, do we?'

'Perhaps.' He sounded sad, and as he glanced around at the students preparing for battle, Assur was able to understand why.

'If they don't fight though, we are going to die,' Winter said, echoing his thoughts. Tolfdir turned his head, and regarded him twinkling eyes.

'We? You know that's not true.'

Assur stared at him, as he slowly worked out exactly what the mage had meant. He glanced at Onmund, who was standing behind him uncomfortably, and his anger uncoiled up at the implications of the old man's words, but he was saved from having to answer by the sound of a horn. It was Father.

Winter quickly ran to one of the openings in the wall where several mages were huddled, to see a force of men marching up the bridge. Most were dressed in leather, with only the richer armed in mail. They advanced quickly, obviously hoping to intimidate the students while building up momentum so their courage didn't fail them. It would happen soon.

The night was clear, hot even, and Assur smiled. He started rubbing his hands together, reaching out to the magic floating at the back of his mind. He knew he shouldn't be too impressive, or else he would raise eyebrows, but Winter wanted to show off his power. It would put the rest of them in their places when the election came.

Assur called his new ability to draw from the world, 'channelling'. With it, he had the potential to become the most powerful mage Tamriel had ever seen; he was the only one who knew about it, probably. Winter planned to keep it that way.

Taking a deep breath, Assur threw out his hands and a blizzard began to gather around the bridge. Father's soldiers noticed this and started running, abandoning all sense in exchange for a desperate desire to get inside the college, and away from what they could only imagine to be a hail of dark magic. But only Assur was the only one capable of such a show. This would be sweet.

The blizzard exploded into existence with a whoosh of air that sent several soldiers flying back. An order was given and several men rushed forward with a battering ram, their faces grimly determined. Fear raced through Assur at the thought that anyone could actually challenge him in here, and he almost let go of the magic, before grasping it again angrily, this time will far more force. The blizzard grew wider, and the air colder as Assur drew from the atmosphere to fuel his spell. The soldiers were wearing thick gloves and hot armour, so they didn't feel it as badly, but the students were beginning to get cold. They rubbed their arms in between firing feeble bolts of lightning, which barely hurt the men-at-arms. The peasant's arrows were more effective, and they punched through leather with ease, spilling blood into the air to be whipped up by the blizzard in a sickening display of power. Assur relished every moment of it.

Suddenly, a sharp crack came from the gate, bringing Assur back to reality. He had been so focused on his spell, he had ignored what was actually happening in the battle. Tolfdir hadn't though, and peasants were lining up to fight the men-at-arms, armed with crude spades, pitchforks and axes. Assur snapped back his hands and the blizzard slowed and stopped while he ran to the gate, staying behind the line of peasants.

The iron gate had frozen in the blizzard, and the battering ram had cracked it easily. Scores of men-at-arms had been frozen to death by the entrance, but their comrades sported only frosted beards and murderous looks. They slammed through the iced up metal, shattering it, and drew their steel with effort, cracking of the ice off the edges, before plunging into the peasants. To Assur's disgust the Winterholdians fell back quickly, some running for safety, others trying to hold back the trained soldiers. Luckily, there were far more of peasants than men-at-arms, and it began to tell as several attacked one man at once, with pitchforks and hammers. Assur turned away, his eyes roaming through the crowd for one man; Korir Winter.

The Jarl was moving through the badly equipped peasants with his bodyguard, trying to preserve them where possible. This slowed him down, but even so, if he had to fight properly, his elite men would tip the scales of the battle unless he was stopped. Assur swallowed, knowing what he had to do. Even so, the fear grasped his throat, constricting it, and for a second he nearly ran, but the magic urged him on.

'Father!'

Korir turned to see him, and frowned, as if he hadn't expected to see his son here. 'Assur?' And then he broke from his bodyguards, running for the younger Winter, his sword drawn.

Winter turned and ran, as they chased him, out across the courtyard. He flicked out a hasty spell behind him, frightened as they drew nearer, and felt some energy leave him as Father's bodyguard were thrown into the air. Korir ignored them though and continued running, catching up with his son. Assur's spell had taken up more strength than he had anticipated in the heat of the moment, and he had had no time to channel it from elsewhere. As a result, he began to slow down, but managed to Assur reach the door to the Hall of Elements first and raced inside.

Without thinking, he rushed into the main area, where he had had his first lesson. The spiral of light rushed up from the centre well, but otherwise, it was surprisingly quiet. Assur came to a halt, out of breath, and stumbled to the stone, taking great gulps of air. The magic had been far more costly than he had anticipated; even channelling took its toll, slight as it was, but that quick blast of power from his own reserves had been a stupid move. Assur cursed himself as Korir stepped into the huge room and locked the gate that divided the Hall of Elements and the outside world from each other. He turned to his son.

'What did you expect to achieve, Assur?'

That question took him by surprise. 'What do you mean?'

Korir frowned. 'Isn't it obvious?' His tone became hard. 'Why did run to this… place anyway, populated by fools and whores.' He started pacing, and stopped, as if considering something while Assur got to his feet. Father's sword was still in his hand. 'Speaking of whores, I heard you've got one. It has your bastard, doesn't it?'

'Her name is Birna,' Assur said tightly.

Korir turned his white-grey eyes on his son, the bloodshot lines shimmering like fire. Even from here, Winter could smell the alcohol on his breath. 'Why here then?' he demanded again sharply.

Assur thought back to all the times he had executed mages, to the days of his rants, and his anger. 'Maybe, it was because I knew you'd never accept me.'

'You are a freak-'

'You're the freak!' Assur bellowed, before he realised what he had just said. He tried to take back the words, but stuttered, and stepped back. Father looked shocked, and Winter quickly spoke again before he could override him. 'I know the Winter's, our ancestors,' he added; 'studied at the college years ago. All of them. Why is that?'

Korir's tone suddenly became pleading. 'Assur-'

'I WANT TO KNOW!' he screamed, his anger and doubt surging up at once. The windows around the hall shattered and fell in a tinkling of glass. The magic urged him on.

Father looked scared. 'I don't know what you mean-'

'You do,' Assur snapped. 'I know you tried to burn down the college as well.'

'When I was young, but not now,' he explained pathetically.

'Tell me,' Winter commanded icily.

Korir stared at him, his expression consumed with despair, and he nodded. 'When I was young, my father was…' He paused, looking upset.

'Tell me!' Assur barked again, and Korir's figure slumped. His breathing came out in a rasp.

'My father was a mage. I never had any powers. Father resented that. He hated that I was so weak. My older sister was so powerful. He doted on her. She was killed while carrying out an experiment.'

'What was the experiment?' Assur asked harshly.

'She wanted to give me her magical powers,' Korir admitted, his tone quiet. 'The magic overwhelmed her though, and Father blamed me.'

'But it was your fault,' Assur told him cruelly. 'She died for you.'

Korir gave him such a guilty look, his son almost felt sorry for his last remark. Almost. 'I enrolled in the college in the hope of learning magic, to try and please him, now I was his heir-'

'But you never did,' Assur guessed. 'So you burnt it down.'

Korir's regained some of his old fire at that. 'I never did.' He stopped, and sat down heavily, dropping his sword. 'You did.'

Shock smashed into Assur, disorientating him completely. He slumped down as well, his mouth suddenly dry as he tried to comprehend what Father had just said. There was no lie in his eyes though. 'Me?'

Korir sighed, and looked up. 'While I was in the college, I met a woman. She was your mother.' He paused, as if trying to decide on the right words for the next bit. 'She was… wonderful.' He let out a deep breath. 'I wish you could have met her. This was after the Great War, against the Dominion, remember? Nords hated Elves.'

Assur's blood turned cold at that, and he could barely breathe as he realised what Father meant. 'My mother was an elf.'

'A High Elf. Beautiful and proud. Her name was Gilfrere.' Assur savoured the name, both Winter's current, strange situation entirely forgotten. 'She gave birth to you a week before we were to be married, in the college. My father killed her there, in front of me.'

Assur's heart slowed again as he thought about that. 'My grandfather… he killed her.'

'And I ripped his throat out.' Father's expression turned dark. 'Oblivion is saved for kinslayers. But I don't regret it.'

'And then I used magic and nearly burnt down the college,' Assur guessed.

Father nodded. 'You were only just born, and scared. The mages wanted compensation. They wanted you, to train and foster. But you were my son, my heir, and the only part of Gilfrere I had left. I couldn't…'

'So you started killing mages,' Assur asking, his tone less accusing now.

'I promised to give you to them on your eighteenth name day. I didn't know how you would react.' He looked up, tears brimming in his eyes. 'I tried my best, but your fate overwhelmed me.'

'They said you burnt down the college though.'

Father nodded. 'So, when you joined them, you wouldn't be shunned. It was part of the deal.' Tears were running don his face freely. 'Assur, I'm so sorry.'

Everything was off; nothing was the same. The Son had been prepared to kill the Father; Assur had wanted to, but as Korir lay broken on the floor, it seemed impossible to do. Winter frowned, and let his hands fall limply to his side as he tried to understand what he had thought would happen. _Definitely not this. _The emotions that were running through his body felt like they were about to cripple him, and they all led back to Korir. Assur clenched his fists, and fire wrapped around them, filling the room with blazing light. Father looked up in surprise. What came out of Assur's mouth surprised his son even more.

'Leave now. Call off the attack, and leave.'

Father looked stunned, but nodded slightly, and stood. He looked as if wanted to say something, but didn't. Instead, he strode off, leaving his sword behind, back into the bloody snows of Winterhold.

**And there we have it. All the secrets, mostly. I originally planned to kill off Korir, but upon writing the conversation, it didn't seem right. Anyway, please review!**


	55. A Hall of Memories

**This has been a long time in coming. Ysold needs her take on Jon's death, and here it finally is. **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! Whoa, I'm really glad you liked it. Best chapter? Fair enough. Oh yeah, Assur's world has been messed up. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I hope you get better. How did it happen? To Empress' Helldog, thanks for the Story Follower! To SHWsaga576, thanks for the Story Follower, Favourite and Follower! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and all that stuff. **

**Thanks for the support so far (just thought I'd say that.) Nelkir next. **

**Lady Ysold Stormcloak **

_**She was smiling in his **__arms, as he hugged her, holding her tight. Ysold could smell that fiery ash scent that had clung to him since he had returned home all those years ago. It was intoxicating and powerful; it filled her with strength, and made lesser men nervous. His hug was just as strong; he enveloped her with his size, but she loved it. Jon had always been so tall; when they had first met he had been thinner, and slightly lanky. It was so weird to think of those days, back when he had no beard, no grey streaks, or Alduin… _

_But the man who vaulted from his horse and raced towards her, his cloak billowing out behind him… _

_His sword, his real sword, was on his hip, the skyforge steel rippling in the sunlight. It swung gently; the motion felt so careless, but so confident. Mostly, though, Ysold stared at his face. It was happy, truly at peace. He smiled, and his eyes gleamed. The silver rims shone gently, enticingly. Gods, she thought, nestled in his arms. They broke apart so Jon could look into her face. Alsfur waited behind them, playing with Ulfgar. Even Ralof was there, smiling at the head of men in sparkling mail, their black surcoats as dark as Jon's sudden moods, the bear of Eastmarch roaring on their chests. My husband's clan. My clan. But Ysold only really had eyes for Jon. His happiness left her drunk, and she beamed up at him, as he leant in close. _

'_I will never leave you, Ysold. Never.' _

_She nodded, tears filling her eyes. _

**Lady Ysold Stormcloak woke quietly. **No heavy breathing, no sweat, nothing. She sat up, and stared at her hands as the memories rushed up and she began crying again. Ysold wanted Jon next to her, but he was gone. He was in Sovngarde, living with the heroes of old. He had probably forgotten her, and bedded some beautiful heroine from the first era. The thought torn her apart, and more often than not, she had nightmares about finding him with another woman, his eyes vacant as they passed over her. Worse though, was the idea that she would go to Aetherius and not to Sovngarde, to be forever apart from him. She might have liked to dream that Jon would find her there, but it was a false hope, and it didn't help her to dwell on any of it. Sadly, that was proving impossible to resist.

Ysold pulled back the sheets and started dressing with languid motions, wondering what time it was. By the look of the light outside it had to be nearly midday. She stared at the bed for a minute, before turning abruptly as the memories threatened to overwhelm her again. She rushed from the room, into the main hall of the Palace of Kings, where the Throne of Ysgramor stood, silent and enduring, unperturbed by the fact that Jon had died. It didn't care; he had just been another Stormcloak. _But he mattered to me! _She wanted to rip apart the throne for its indifference, but still, it sat, ignoring her threats.

Ysold turned away, her silly anger fading as quickly as it had come, replaced by the deep sense of drowning that swallowed her mind in a sea of doubt. She had never learnt to swim. Most peasants didn't, unless they lived near the sea. Jon might have been able to; she had never actually asked him, which seemed absurd now. Ysold tried to smile at the thought, but instead a sense of insecurity replaced it as she realised she had never asked her husband if could swim. The doubt seized her with its dark claws, dragon claws, wrapped in black smoke, mocking her. Ysold tried to escape, but suddenly found herself surrounded by the night, and it reached out to her, writhing like a snake. She stumbled from the main hall, and the summer air washed over her face. But in her mind, it was fire, and it burst from the dark smoke, burning her.

Ysold let out a cry as he banged against a solid object, and the black smoke was blasted away. She looked up fearfully to see Jon, watching her. Ysold stumbled back in surprise, only to realise this wasn't her husband. It was the Dovahkiin; the stone statue they had begun to be built upon his death, complete now. _I don't remember approving this; Ulfgar must have done it. _She stared up at him, this stranger she barely recognised.

It was Jon without a doubt though; it was his face, cast in dark stone, bowed under some great weight, his hands rested on Kodaav, which drove into the skull of Alduin, shrivelled beneath his opponent's mind. Jon's mouth was parted slightly, and through some strange magic, a light mist whispered out; the thu'um.

Ysold rested her head against his leg, feeling the tears coming on, but a voice yanked her from her thoughts.

'I never liked him.'

Ysold whipped around, suddenly furious at what this stranger was implying, before actually seeing him. He was tall, and thin. His hair reached to his ears, and was an iron grey, but his face was strong and regal. He had the stance of a farmer, with deep brown eyes, but sporting sparks of a strange blue. It was those eyes that were regarding the statue of Jon with a disdainful glare. 'Say what you mean,' she snapped, green fire raging through her own eyes. 

He turned to regard her with a strange look. 'Nothing, my lady. I meant nothing by it. You did though,' he said calmly.

Ysold frowned, annoyed by what he had just done. 'He was your liege.' She looked up at the statue wistfully. 'He deserves your respect… and love,' she added quietly.

When she turned back, he was walking away, tromping through a cloud of snow. And then he was gone. Ysold frowned, completely baffled by the strange exchange, and the man's complete lack of deference to her rank. She had been a farmer once as well, and didn't expect anyone to bend the knee to her, but as the Jarl's widow and Alsfur's mother, the man might have shown more tact. _It's exactly what Jon would have done. _A thought held in her mind for a moment, much to her astonishment, but then the ringing of steel snapped her from the idea, and she hurtled back into the present.

Ysold melancholy slowly sank back into her mind, as she set off to discover what all the noise was about. She didn't like what she found: Ulfgar was fighting with another man, swinging his sword in practiced strikes as the man retreated slowly with a careful step. As she watched, he moved forward, putting Ulfgar on the defensive with slow strokes for the boy to parry with stiff movements. Obvious thoughts about Jon rushed up; he would have met his end at the point of a sword, and now the thought of the weapon repulsed her. Before she even knew what she was doing, she intercepted the two combatants and wrenched the steel from her son's grip, throwing it to the ground, where it clattered off the stone.

'Mother!' Ulfgar looked shocked. 'What's going on?'

'Not this,' she replied tightly. The trainer looked between them nervously, but Ysold ignored him. 'What are you doing fighting?' Ulfgar frowned in a very Jon-like way, which nearly drew tears from her eyes, but she managed to thrust them back down, and crossed her arms, waiting for his answer.

'I need to learn to fight,' he said, as if this was obvious.

'No, you don't,' Ysold responded firmly. She knew she was being unreasonable, but if he learnt to handle a sword, he would go to war, and he would die. She couldn't allow that.

'Alsfur's fighting though. I need to learn so I can join him.'

'You're not going to join him. You'll stay here, and watch his estates. I can't convince your brother otherwise, and he's a grown man, but I can you.'

Ulfgar looked indigent. 'But no one will respect me if I can't fight. It's the Nordic way!' he insisted, childishly.

'So is the home and hearth,' Ysold told him strictly.

'It's not a man's job!'

His mother gave him a furious look, upset by his views of the world, but before she could answer a horn rang out throughout the city; the Jarl's horn. _Jon! _For a second, she actually believed she would see him riding into the courtyard, Alsfur behind him, like in her dream, and she rushed to the huge doors that led into the Palace of Kings, the inner keep of Windhelm. They were normally open but guarded, and today was no exception. Ysold made her way to the entrance, trying to catch a glimpse of them riding up, but they hadn't arrived there yet. Jon was probably parading through the city, with his Thanes behind him.

A hand tugged at her sleeve and Ysold turned to see Ulfgar, looking sheepish now. A short distance behind him the household was lining up in neat lines, ready to receive their Jarl. He gave her an insistent look and she nodded with understanding, drawing him close and making their way to the front of the household. They didn't have to wait that long.

As soon as she saw Alsfur riding up, his men flanking him, her heart rose in a massive arc of joy, and she let out a breath of relief. For a second, she was almost more pleased to see him than Jon, before the memories flooded back. His smile whisked them away though, and he dismounted as the household knelt. Ysold ignored them and ran out to hug her son.

Alsfur grip was strong, and he wrapped his arms around her comfortingly, in a way Ulfgar was too young to do. He towered over her, and as they pulled apart, she noticed he had a dark beard, almost black, covering his jaw.

'How did Jon die?' she whispered, unable to put it off; the thought had plagued her mind since she had received the letter.

'He was defending me.' For a second, Alsfur looked like he was going to cry, but he controlled himself. Even so, he looked uncomfortable, as if he was hiding a secret.

Ulfgar came over and Alsfur commanded the household stand down, but Ysold's attention was attracted by something else. The sight of Thane Blackmoore in chains. She let out a little gasp and turned to Alsfur, who was looking at the same thing with a distasteful glare.

'What's going on, Alsfur?' she asked.

'Thane Blackmoore refused to carry out my orders during battle. My Housecarl, Ulster, had to do the honours.'

The last part, an offhand remark, made Ysold's head snap round. 'Your Housecarl, Ulster…' He came up behind Alsfur now, looking smug.

'Lady Stormcloak. May I extend my deepest condolences,' he said smoothly with a small inclination of his head.

'Keep that snake between your teeth,' she hissed angrily, before turning to her eldest son. 'Alsfur, we need to talk.'

He nodded. 'Yes, we do.' His tone sounded dismissive though. Stormcloak led the way back into the Palace of Kings, with his Thanes following behind him. Obviously, it was quite a thing when a Thane was to receive justice from his Jarl, Ysold noticed uneasily.

The Throne of Ysgramor was still there, watching them all, and she noticed a flicker of hesitation when Alsfur stood before it. With a jolt of surprise, Ysold realised that this was the first time he was going to sit the throne as Jarl, and she felt a chill run through her as Alsfur frowned, regarding it like a dangerous beast. And then he climbed the steps and sat, casting a lordly glower down at Tor Blackmoore. The Thanes were arranging out in a semi-circle and their Theyns moved up behind them in a fairly disorganised rabble.

For a second, Alsfur looked uncomfortable, but then his gaze fixed and he motioned to one of the women waiting by the side, a scribe of sorts. She pulled out ink and parchment, set down a tray on her lap, and poised, ready to write. Obviously, Tor's guilt had already been decided; this was more a summary of events, she realised. With a pang of sympathy, he glanced at Tor; he stood upright, and if he was feeling any fear, he hid it well.

'Tor, of Clan Blackmoore, Thane of Jarl's Head. You are here for treason in battle. You disobeyed my order,' Alsfur reminded him. 'We nearly lost that battle.'

_Wait, what battle? _Ysold managed to keep this sudden thought to herself, while becoming intensely focused on the events in front of her. Jon almost left her mind completely.

'My Jarl,' Tor said quietly. 'I didn't betray you. I was simply following an order.'

'From who?' Alsfur asked, leaning forward, his blue eyes dark and unforgiving. Clearly he had no intention of believing anything Tor said. He had heard it already.

'From Ulster Stormcloak.' The room exchanged chuckles; they knew it all already.

'I gave no order, but the Jarl's,' Ulster said coldly, stepping forward.

'I sent him to give you word to attack,' Alsfur agreed. 'You disobeyed that order.'

'A Housecarl should be at your side,' Tor remarked dryly, staring at Ulster, who returned the look in kind.

'I had Carl Ralof there.' Grumbles went out through the crowd, and Ysold started looking for the disgraced Housecarl desperately, gratitude overpowering all other senses. She couldn't see him though. 'My order was urgent for the battle,' Alsfur continued. 'Ulster serves me in all capacities.'

'I was told not to attack. Your Housecarl said I should hold back,' Tor objected, his tone steady.

'But you don't have any witnesses,' Alsfur finished for him, looking vaguely upset now. 'I have no choice.' He paused, as if considering what he should do next, _or perhaps deciding on the punishment_, Ysold thought sadly. 'You'll be sentenced to death,' Alsfur commanded. But this time his voice was quiet, and he looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. The judgement surprised Ysold, and the crowd. His voice cut off all conversation before it could really begin.

'Put him in a cell. My vigil starts tonight. Any who wishes to challenge my right to my Father's titles may do so, until sunrise tomorrow.'

Dread filled Ysold's mind; it was an ancient tradition, kept in the Old Holds, Eastmarch among them. The Thegn would stand vigil by his Father's throne, or the equivalent, armoured and waiting for challengers. Normally, the night passed with no objections, and indeed, a loyal sibling might dissuade any who would come, but by right, anyone born in the hold could challenge Alsfur. Peasants were barred from the palace, making it impossible for them to exercise this right though, and typically only a challenger of the same blood could do so. _Ulfgar would never do that_. Besides, it came down to single combat, normally to the death, in which Alsfur was far superior. Whoever won, became Jarl, and stood the rest of the vigil. Ysold vaguely recalled Ufridge Challenger, named so because he had to fight ten bouts to win his place as King, back when the Stormcloak's held the crown. The Thanes were obviously here to watch this, as was their duty.

Ysold thought that was it, but glancing back, she saw two figures, Erik and Tavia, moving forward. Tor's heir's face looked impossibly tight, while Tavia looked devastated. They had been good houseguests, even if Erik was quiet, and Ysold's sympathised with them.

They moved up below Alsfur, as the Thanes started moving off, probably to prepare for a night of waiting as well. _The whim of the Jarl can be frustrating, but it is their duty to be there, ready to serve total allegiance to the new, official Jarl. After all, a King's word only means so much. _Ysold turned her mind back to what Alsfur was doing.

'I can't do anything about it. I'm sorry, but treason is death. I didn't make the rules,' he said, looking pained. With a jolt, Ysold realised the Blackmoore's probably meant more to Alsfur than she had originally thought. _When did this happen? _

'As you wish, my Jarl,' Erik said, his eyes burning. His self-control was incredible. Tavia was nearly weeping; _there must have been more to Tor than anyone else knew._

'Please, Alsfur. You can't do this,' she pleaded. His expression showed anguish, as clearly as the day Ysold herself had rejected Jon when he had returned as Dragonborn. _I was so petty. But then, he had changed. So, much had changed…_

The memories rushed back in, joy, laughter, and crushing despair. By the time she returned to the world, they were gone.

Alsfur was descending the throne, looking older than he had been when he had ascended. Ulfgar came to his side. Ysold joined them.

'Did you have to do that?' she asked, watching the Blackmoore's exit the hall.

'Treason is death,' Alsfur said sharply. 'I can't do anything to change that.'

'It's harsh, Mother, but it is the law,' Ulfgar said, his tone unyielding. 'There can be no other way.'

'You could lock him away, or strip his titles-' Ysold reasoned, but Ulfgar cut her off again, and he looked at him with surprise.

'The law says treason is punishable by death. If we don't hold up the law, then we have nothing.' He looked at Alsfur. 'I agree with your decision, Brother.' And then he left, no doubt to play with his toys in an unsettling transformation from man to child. In a way, Ysold wished he'd just grown up; it would make things easier. _What side of the family did that personality come from?_ It certainly wasn't Jon, but her father had always been strict. When Jon had first asked for her hand, he had refused, so her future husband had threatened to burn down the farm. He smiled at the memory; Jon had been so gloomy, more gloomy at least, and vicious, like the world was against him. To be fair, it normally was. _If only Father could see us now…_

The thought of Jon reminded her that his body would be here now, to be buried, and sadness enveloped her. Ysold was going to ask Alsfur to come with her, butby the time she came back to her senses, he was gone, and she was alone in a hall of memories.

**Well, that set some stuff up, and I hope that was sad enough. Ysold and Ralof will have a nice moment soon, but you'll have to wait for that. Single combat; thank HL for the inspiration. It should be interesting. **


	56. A Few Good Men

**Well, here we are. Nelkir again; let's see what he's been up to then! It's nothing good. **

**The thanks; to Blade Agent, thanks for the review! He may, and as for Ysold, she's stuck in the stasis between not quite believing it, and believing it. She'll crack soon. Alsfur intends to execute Tor. A lot of people can trust Ulster, if you think about it. To the stone tiger, thanks for the Story Follower. To Foacir, thanks for the review! Well, think about this; Ysold had problems trusting Ralof at one point. No one really believes Blackmoore is a traitor, but you won't know until next chapter, when we get back inside his head. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked the last, last chapter. You know, I'm postponing this update for you. Sorry I couldn't keep it in longer, but I wanted to get it out. Thanks to everyone who reviewed or read it, or whatever. **

**It is Tor next, so you guys get to find out what is really going on at the Stormcloak court. Please review guys! You know how much I appreciate it! **

**Nelkir White**

**Nelkir White sat alone in **his room, drawing a whetstone across his dagger. It was the same one he had taken from the Forsworn member earlier. The dull iron barely reflected the light of the torch set in the corner of the barracks where Nelkir sat on his bed, but silver glinted through the cuts he had made with a missed whetstone stroke. Even so, despite it's poor quality, the dagger would be sharp.

The bastard was still determined to challenge Arras at the fight; he would see him dead, preferably with this dagger. His rage had died down, but like a spark, or embers at the bottom of a pit, it remained. Now all Nelkir had to do was climb the pit, away from that anger; _and the only way I can do that is to kill Arras. _For most people it seemed that they had to fight their way to the top, presumably where Arras would hold court, but White suspected he would make an exception for himself.

As he sat drawing the whetstone across the dagger, his mind wandered onto other things. He had only learnt about the death of Jon Stormcloak and Father a few days ago, from the mouth of another in a conversation he wasn't part of. No one talked to a bastard, but that was fine; he had grown used to solitude by now. It was his shield; it was the only way he could twist life's shitty circumstances to his own choosing. It gave him little enough choice as it was.

Nelkir wasn't sure whose death he had been most sad about. Jon Stormcloak, in the brief time he had met him, and been more of a father than Balgruuf Wind-Shifter had ever been to him. And yet, the former king had spared his life, when he could just have easily put Nelkir to death; _or could he? How easy would it have been for him? _Somehow, White doubted his 'pure' motives for the mercy. _More like, it was a way of appeasing his own conscience_, Nelkir reflected bitterly. _But I don't care. It doesn't even matter anymore. I'm here, and he's dead. Things turned as they were supposed to. _

Nelkir genuinely believed that, and resumed sharpening his dagger without another thought for the matter, his mourning done, as a couple of Imperial's walked in. They quickly gathered up their stuff, staying far away from Nelkir, but one of the braver one's tried to take a shot.

'Fucking bastard.' And then he left, leaving Nelkir to lick his 'wounds'. _I've heard worse. _The Blade's had the least imagination of any of people he had met before.

Nelkir put down his whetstone and tested the edge of his dagger. Blood welled from the small cut that appeared. Satisfied, White slipped the dagger into a sheath he had acquired from the stores long before people had regarded his every move with the suspicious glare they reserved for the baseborn, and strapped it to his belt. All armour came from the stores, so Nelkir just made sure his boots were tied well and adjusted his simple, dirty white shirt, reserved for when he wasn't wearing the blue-black uniform of the Blades. _We'll be sorted into out houses soon, _he remembered glumly. That didn't seem to matter anymore either. 

Without a glance back, Nelkir left the room and trudged through the corridors. He wondered if Arras would provide him with a sword. The thought made him smile thinly with amusement; the other Nord would make sure the competition would be as unfair as possible.

Changing direction, Nelkir headed for the armoury, watching his back as he opened the door and slipped inside. It was dark, but White could see enough to find the blades with an edge. They were locked behind a gate, as he had expected, but a nervous chill still raced through him.

_You should leave this place. Don't go to meet your rival, _the voice whispered, but Nelkir turned on it angrily.

_Just tell me how to open this gate. _

The voice consented grudgingly. _Find a long, thin object. _Nelkir studied the ground for a second, and found a pin on the floor, which would suit his needs well. _Put it in, and look for the lock. There should be something you can put resistance against. _Nelkir found such a point, and turned the lock, twisting the pick to try and break something. With a snap and sharp draw of breath, Nelkir threw the broken pick aside angrily. He took a breath before suddenly slamming his fists against the gate furiously, letting his anger explode in a violent burst of rage, heedless for any noise he would make. Finished, the bastard drew back, let out a sharp breath, and turned on his heel, making his way outside.

_Where are you going? _the Voice asked insistently.

_To fight Arras, _Nelkir replied tersely. 

_Without a weapon? _

_If I have to. _

_Stop, _the Voice commanded, and White did, turning back to the storage. _I'll help you. _

_How? _Nelkir asked, shrewdly.

_Get to the gate again. _Anticipation buzzing through him, Nelkir rushed back to the weapon room, and stood in front of the gate. _Put your hand on the lock. _The bastard did, as anxiety began to spread out from the corners of his mind. Suddenly, with a sickening sensation that left him feeling paralysed, a purple mist wrapped around his fingers, and rushed into the lock. His mind cleared with a flash and the gate snapped open, Nelkir fell back, breathing heavily.

His first emotion was fear; blinding fear. He examined his fingers, turning them over in a panic, but that just as soon as that subsided, replaced with black anger, that consumed his mind with the force of a hurricane.

'What did you do!' he bellowed, unable to contain himself silently.

_What needed to be done. If you're going to match your rival, you will need a sword._

Nelkir eyed the lock, and gritted his teeth. _So, I can use magic? _The idea sent a shiver of doubt through him as he considered the vast possibilities, but the Voice ended that overwhelming line of thought.

_No, I can. __**I**__ draw it from your energy. _

Not for the first time, the simple question came back to him. _What are you? Why me? Am I going mad? _

_In time, it will all be revealed. But before you go, know this; my powers are beyond your comprehension. They are not to be trifled with; to try and take hold of them would destroy you. _

_Then leave my fucking body, _he growled, more scared by the threat than he cared to admit.

_Not yet. _

Nelkir was seething with barely suppressed rage at being deceived, again, by those around him, but the sight of steel caught his eye and he moved over to the swords, casting a glance over the shorter ones before he found the longswords. He picked one up and tested it; it had good enough balance, though no one would ever say it was perfect, and Nelkir slipped it into his belt, not bothering to pick up one of the sheaths; it only had one purpose.

Nelkir quickly made sure nothing was out of place before shutting the gate, and turning to come face to face with Marco. His eyes were judgemental, and White decided he couldn't be bothered to deal with him now, despite the Imperial's attempts to make contact over the past few days. Nelkir made to brush past him, but Marco stayed put, and scowled when he noticed the sword.

'What are you doing?'

'What does it look like? I'm going to kill Arras,' Nelkir growled, and shoved him aside, but the Imperial was persistent.

'That's impulsive, Nelkir, and you know it.'

The bastard turned to face him, his expression fearsome. 'Don't try and stop me, Marco.'

'Or what?' he asked, crossing his arms.

Nelkir whipped out his arm, and threw the Imperial against the wall, where he held him. Panic crossed the Imperial's face, much to White's disdain. 'Don't pretend you care about me. It doesn't suit you.' He let go of him and strode away, frustration boiling through him. _Why does he have to do that? _Nelkir railed angrily. _Everyone thinks they know what's best for me, but they're just a bunch of liars. They all turn on me. _ But, as he walked, Nelkir considered Marco's words. Doubts began to form, and the Voice appeared again.

_Don't do this. Listen to your friend. _

_My' friend', _Nelkir noted coldly. That just fuelled on his desire to face Arras. He pushed the Voice from his mind and quickly made his way into a dark corridor, aware he was now in possession of a stolen sword. The fight was supposed to be in one of the less used rooms, some of which hadn't been in use for years, somewhere in the west side. _Sky Haven is too large a place for the Blades at the moment. _Recruitment was improving, but the fortress could hold 5,000 men if it had to. Nelkir quickened his pace, keeping an eye out for anywhere that might hold a fight. It was easy to find for those looking for it.

Down one stretch of corridor, less used than the rest and covered in dust, a Imperial and a Breton lounged by side, watching their surroundings carefully. Obviously they were some sort of lookouts for Arras. Nelkir quickly looked them over and stepped forward, setting his eyes with a cool edge.

'Look who it is? A little bastard, come out to play,' one of them jeered upon noticing him.

'Why don't you go running back to mummy?' the other added, which they found unbridled amusement in, given the circumstances of his birth. Nelkir kept his face impassive, even as hate hummed through his arms, setting his nerves alight.

'You know why I'm here. Spare me the crap, and show me to Arras.'

The Breton nodded. 'Sure, whatever. He'll do worse to you than anyone could even fuckin' imagine.'

'Small imaginations,' Nelkir remarked dryly, and jerked his head in the direction of the corridor. The Breton gave him a slow nod in response to his remark, grinning viciously as the bastard stepped past, in a futile attempt to intimidate him, while the Imperial led the way down the corridor, where cries could be heard. Nelkir guessed he should probably be scared, by the Breton's grin, or the shouting coming from the room, but honestly, he didn't even care anymore. All that ran through his mind was anger and determination. And that could get him to do just about anything.

They entered a large room, circular, like an arena. Nelkir suddenly felt out of his depth as someone noticed him. He began to become aware that this was the stupidest thing he had ever done, as more and more people began to notice him. And then the taunts…

They rained in from each side, and hands thrust out of the crowd to push and shove him. A fist slammed across his face in a blast of pain and White fell to his hands and knees. Fists grabbed him, names were called, and Nelkir was thrown out into the middle of the arena, before the mob surrounded him. The fighters already there quickly retreated and the White stood, turning to take in the horde on all sides. Now, cold, sharp fear began to fill his throat, restricting it and making his head rush. He let out a shallow breath and the place fell completely silent, and Arras stepped forward, raised above everyone else.

'Look what the cat dragged in! A bastard.' He smiled a truly sadistic smile, revelling in his chaos, presiding over the masses. Nelkir glanced around, feeling weak, but he didn't show it. The jeers came on, and a rock slammed into his elbow, sending wicked pain through the joint. Nelkir gritted his teeth, looking up at Arras.

'Let's end this, now. Just us.'

'Demands,' the other Nord noted. 'From a bastard. The lowest of the low.' He shook his head. 'I don't take orders from shits like you.'

Nelkir was shocked; _what the hell has this become? _This 'rivalry', however it had started, was quickly getting out of hand. His anger, for the first time in days, was abating, leaving Nelkir cursing his stupidity. _I should have listened to Marco. _ 'What are you doing, Arras.' White shook his head weakly, gesturing around lightly. 'This is too much.'

'King's bastard has no power over me. You think your blood makes you wise, or powerful,' he sneered. 'It just makes you inferior.'

'Fine,' Nelkir said, resigned to his fate. 'Let's see how much of it you can spill. Maybe if you get enough, you'll have the _right_ to be King of the Mob.'

Arras smiled. 'Let's do this then, White. Might be, I'm a Wind-Shifter myself.' He stepped down, drawing his sword. Predictably, it was as sharp a razor. The thief noticed Nelkir's expression. 'Scared, bastard boy? You should be.' He leapt forward, and White threw up his left hand, catching Arras' sword hilt. They stood locked, both surprised, and adrenaline raced through Nelkir in a sudden burst. Without thinking, he drew his sword, and whipped it across the other Nord's chest. Arras managed to jerk back, but even so, blood spilled onto the stone, and the other Nord stumbled back, letting out a dark scream. He put his hand to his chest. It came away covered in scarlet blood, vivid against the grey stone. It was only a flesh wound, a nasty one, but nonetheless, not fatal.

'You'll pay for that, White.' He stepped forward with a hail of blows, and Nelkir stepped back, their steel kissing several times as the bastard tried to fend off the wild attack. With a cry, Arras spun his sword around, but Nelkir parried it, and counter-attacked, the thrust aiming for his opponent's head. Arras turned it with his blade, and White seized the chance, throwing his weight into the thief's body. They stumbled, but the other Nord grabbed the back of Nelkir's hair and threw him to the floor.

Pain rocketed through the bastard's back, splitting it in two. His wind burst out as well, creating a sick rush of feelings through his mind and body. Shouts echoed all around them; Nelkir could hardly breathe now, but he didn't have time to recover. Arras swung his blade down with a vicious cry, his eyes burning with pure, frightening hate. Fumbling for a second, Nelkir grabbed his sword and interposed it in a ringing clash of steel. The bastard was the stronger of the two, much to his own surprise. It made sense though; Arras was bleeding heavily, and losing life by the minute unless he patched up his wound. With a roar, Nelkir threw him over, so he was on top, and tried to slam down his blade, his anger making him forget everything.

Arras pulled out a dagger and rammed it into the bastard shoulder with frightening speed. The pain was incredible; it sucked the air from his lungs and sprayed it over them again like liquid fire. Nelkir rolled off the other Nord, screaming and writhing, trying to blink away tears. Arras got to his feet, and picked up his sword. Nelkir pulled the dagger out, forgetting common sense, pain numbing his senses, forgetting everything as the fire whipped through his body and the other Nord advanced again. This time, White knew what he had to do. Flipping the dagger in his hand, like he had all that time ago fighting the Forsworn, he held it poised, waiting as his vision began to darken. Arras staggered forward and raised his sword, committed to the blow. Nelkir threw the dagger.

The Gods must have been watching; it flew through the air, hung for a second, and plunged straight into Arras' throat. He stopped, and the room fell silent as he tried to draw a choking breath, and then fell to the ground. Nelkir stared at him wide-eyed, the realisation of what he had just done sinking through him.

'Arras?' he asked, scared. Fear rippled through the hall as people started crying out and shouting for help, stamping out, rushing around. Nelkir tried to crawl, but found himself surrounded by Arras' inner circle; two men grabbed and held him as the other two stared at him.

'What have you done?' one of them asked numbly, and then the punches came. To his knees, face, his stomach, his chest, his injured shoulder. They slammed into him with the weight of a dragon, breaking his ribs, cutting his skin. His mouth felt bloody as pain attacked his senses. Snaps echoed through his mind, broken bones, and he let out a scream. He couldn't quite breathe; more fists, a dagger. It plunged into his flesh and he let out a blood-curdling, inhuman cry, trying to fight out. But it was hopeless.

The cold stone rushed up, and Nelkir tasted blood and cold concrete. He was pulled around limply, and the dagger shimmered into existence above him, gleaming dimly.

'Let's do what he did to Arras.' It slammed down, but suddenly another hand grabbed it. A Redguard's hand.

Steel flashed out, knocking the man down and the men began to clear as blurs entered the room. Nelkir let out a cry and Thaena appeared above him, frowning, and then he remembered not being able to breathe, and a summer storm, and something forgettable. But no darkness came; the images flickered around his head, as pain sunk into his bone, melting them away. Finally it became too much and Nelkir fell into unconsciousness.

**A lot of characters seem to end unconscious. Must suck for them. Please review! Sorry the fight was so short, but again, it didn't feel like it needed to be all that long. But, rest assured, more will be coming up. **


	57. A Black Cloak

**Time to find out some stuff! I've got to say, I was hoping for more reviews though, but whatever, its your place to judge if you like the chapter or not. **

**The thanks for Blade Agent99 then; Nelkir can be pretty stupid, but at least Arras' death was one good thing to come out of it. The Blades do suck at school bully things; they just don't have a program in place. Thanks to HL and Brunette Authorite for the reviews as well! PLus- you chose a hell of a time to review Delphine hater. Just as I posted this chapter; thanks for the review! You'll see how it plays out now. God luck with the exams and no, I don't play Hobbit Kingdoms, sorry.**

**Yoru expectations may not be 'shattered', but certainly you're about to be set on a different path plot wise. Some of you guys have misjudged one thing seriously, which is fun for me to see (so I can subvert everything later. Well, maybe…) **

**Thane Tor Blackmoore **

**A rat ran past Thane **Tor Blackmoore's foot. With a grimace, he shoved it away and pulled himself in closer, away from the bloodstains, shit and more unsavoury things. A meal lay on a plate in the corner, water, bread and, befitting his status, a wedge of ham and cheese. The rats had eaten that by now though, but they hadn't gotten to the water, which Tor guarded meticulously, using it sparingly to cool his parched throat. _I suppose Alsfur would let me die in here; it might make it easier for his conscience. _

Tor let out a sigh, not of anger or frustration, but of weariness. Heartache for what could have been washed in waves over him, numbing his mind; the pain had been indescribable, and so primal. The thought of leaving Sonjia, Erik, Nik, Tavia, everyone he had ever known, it tore apart his heart, before he had even realised how much they truly meant to him. _But then, few people know that, until they stare death in the face. _He even hoped Nura would be okay, after this was done, but somehow he doubted his sister's capacity to care. But that was gone now; he was spent, emotionally. Instead, he resolved to do two things; meet his end honourably, without hesitation, and expose Ulster Stormcloak.

He knew it was the other Nord who had done this. Alsfur's great uncle was crafty, and cunning. He appeared a good actor, for the gullible, and obviously, he had seduced Alsfur to his point of view, but Tor knew it was the elder Stormcloak who had issued the order; obviously, a lost battle, no matter the devastating consequences on Eastmarch, was nothing to him in his bid to become Jarl.

Hate for the other Nord reared its ugly head in Tor's mind, but whenever he thought of Alsfur, there were no such thoughts. _He's trusting, naïve perhaps, but no tyrant. _The new Jarl was obviously acting on his gut, and he would have to if he was going to gain the respect of the likes of Shatter-Shield or Seastride. _No doubt they are revelling in my downfall; it has been a lucky turn of events for the ambitious, _Tor reflected. A legitimate way to remove the competition. _Erik's going to have a hard time of it when he becomes Thane, _Blackmoore thought morosely_. _

There was a rattling of bars from above that made Tor Blackmoore snap up, and the rats scurry away to their lairs. A light appeared on the steps and descended; it was Erik and Tavia.

Anguish gripped his heart in iron claws when he realised they were going to have to see him in this pitiful state, a far cry from the Lord of Jarl's Head, and they clenched tighter when he saw Tavia. She was crying, but tried to pull herself together again when she saw him, languishing in his grasping chains. Erik seemed more composed, but his face was so tight with suppressed emotion it was amazing it hadn't shattered by now. They came up to the cell, a guard following them to ensure nothing happened, and Tor stood, rushing to the gate in his haste, all decorum forgotten, but he shackles stopped him from reaching the cold metal by a mere few inches.

'Are you alright?' he asked instantly. 'Alsfur hasn't hurt you.'

Erik shook his head. 'I will still be Thane after you, Father,' he said, his voice cracking as he realised the implications of this. 'The Jarl could have removed that by traitor's right, but he had the grace not to.' His tone said otherwise though; it was hard and unforgiving and Tor feared for what he might do now, his thoughts clouded by impetuous anger.

Thane Blackmoore licked his dry lips and looked between them. 'Don't do anything stupid. Alsfur is just doing his duty-'

'To kill my Father?' Erik interjected icily. 'Is that his duty? Just because he lost his, doesn't give him the right-'

'Quiet!' Tor roared, furious. 'Jon Stormcloak was more than any of us. I still remember the dragons, even if no one else does, and his sons are far removed from the petty squabbles of lesser men. So I won't hear anymore about that,' Tor commanded.

Erik nodded, reprimanded. 'Yes, Father.'

They watched each other for a moment, before Tor asked the question he had been wanting to since he was forced down here. 'Have you told your mother about this?'

'Not yet,' Erik admitted quietly.

Tor looked down sadly. 'Maybe that's for the best.' He took a deep breath as awkward silence fell back over them.

'I don't want you to be executed,' Tavia said suddenly, almost silently, as if she didn't feel like she didn't belong here talking to him.

Tor smiled dryly. 'I don't want to either.'

'No,' she insisted, the words spilling out. 'You did so much for me. I'm not your blood, but you took me in, cared for me, you even gave me your _name_. I owe you so much.'

'You are my wife's niece,' Tor explained, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. 'Any man would have done the same.'

'I'm not sure they would have,' Tavia said. 'I was lucky to have you as a father.'

Longing leapt up, and regret; she wasn't making this any easier, but Tor was touched beyond words. 'And you as a daughter,' he said in a cracked voice. He couldn't take her hand, but looks might have been enough.

'Aye, you were the best father,' Erik agreed miserably. 'I hope I can live up to you.'

'You'll best me, I'm sure,' Tor said firmly, his eyes shining with sorrow. Another rattle of bars sounded from above, and they snapped around. Erik drew himself in front of Tor, as if to protect him, and Alsfur came down the steps, flanked by Ulster Stormcloak, and two guards.

He saw Erik first. 'I wasn't expected you to see you,' the Jarl said awkwardly. Stormcloak nodded at Tavia. 'My lady.'

She rushed past him and Erik followed with an angry stare. Tor sighed; _things are falling apart._ 'My Jarl, how can I help you?' he asked politely, not quite managing to keep his accusing glare from Ulster Stormcloak.

Alsfur looked worse upon hearing that. 'I… I'm sorry, Tor. There's not much I can do.'

'Quite,' he agreed sharply, his tone returning to the usual hardness reserved for anyone but his family.

'You're execution will be in two days, after my vigil.'

That caught Tor's attention, and he remembered the old traditions. 'You're feeling confident?'

Alsfur regarded him strangely, as if this was a question the Thane shouldn't be asking. 'As confident as anyone,' he said coolly. 'No one challenged Father.'

'But your Father was not a normal example,' Tor said, oblivious to how demoralising that line was, or the uncomfortable look on Alsfur's face_. Jon Stormcloak's vigil had been the biggest farce of them all, _he remembered. The son of the popular Ulfric Stormcloak, and Dragonborn besides, the people had been rejoicing all night with a massive celebration that went on for two days. An honour guard of Blades covered the entrance to ensure no one exercised their right to fight Jon, not that anyone would; his prowess with the thu'um was never more prominent than it was then, at the end of a war. No one had even come near, accept for Jon's wife, who Tor had seen enter the palace quite a few times. Tor still remembered shaking his head, baffled by the inanity of even holding the vigil.

Back then, Jon had been young; he would have torn apart any foe who challenged him anyway. Tor still remembered fighting on Ulfric's side, at the battle in the snow. He had imagined, if he could kill the Dragonborn, the war would end; indeed it might have, but as soon as he had forced his way through the men to confront Jon, he knew he had been outclassed. What the Dragonborn lacked in finesse, he made up in with sheer strength. _Coupled with Kodaav, he had smashed through my axe and shield before I even knew I was in the snow, accepting mercy from his bloody hand. _It had been the right choice though; Jon had proven himself effective, if not through personal charm, then because of his single minded determination to get things done. Tor wondered how Alsfur's reign would work; admiration, loyalty, or fear. No one could know from now, but he was already proving decisive on the field and at court, which would serve him well.

Tor snapped back to reality, and Alsfur gave him an irritated look, before signalling to the guard. 'See that his last days are comfortable. Get him out of this…' the Jarl frowned as he looked around; 'out of this pit, and into somewhere more suiting of his rank.'

'Of course, my Jarl,' the guard inclined his head and Alsfur made to leave, but Ulster Stormcloak drew him aside, and after a quiet discussion, he left, leaving the elder Stormcloak behind. Ulster turned his dark, smoky, almost black eyes on Tor and stared at him. The remaining original guard was dismissed in a way that reminded Blackmoore too much of Ulfric to be of comfort; _how could such a knight be so alike to a snake like Ulster? _

Stormcloak seemed to read his mind, and turned back, scowling. But of course, he knew nothing of Tor's mind. 'Why me?' he asked suddenly, surprising Blackmoore.

He considered the question and Ulster waited. 'Why you? Why did I blame you?' Tor guessed. Stormcloak nodded. 'You set me up. That's why.'

'I'll be blunt, Blackmoore. I don't like you. I don't trust you, but you seem an honourable man. Why blame your mistake on me? Do you think I'm an easy scapegoat because of my past intentions?'

Tor frowned. 'No, I think you're an easy scapegoat because you betrayed the Jarl.'

Ulster looked genuinely baffled. 'Alsfur?' He shook his head uncomprehendingly . 'I never betrayed him. I saved his life.'

'But you gave the order for me to hold back,' Tor reasoned, becoming less and less sure of his defence as he spoke.

'In the battle against Silver-Blood? I did leave the Jarl's side. He ordered me to get you moving, but only after you held back, despite Alsfur's clear instructions. Then I led your men forward, and took you into custody.'

Tor looked down, trying to think, his mind racing through all the possibilities. It was all a blur, but Ulster's words rang true; now he thought about it, the more certain it seemed, and Tor paled as he realised he may have been wrong about such an accusation.

'I received a messenger, dressed in the colours of the Jarl, his personal squire,' Tor admitted. 'I questioned the orders he gave me to hold back, and after some pushing, he admitted you gave the order directly. But you were Alsfur's Housecarl, so I held still,' he reasoned, more to himself than Ulster. 'Only one man on the battlefield wears those colours, and that surcoat.'

Ulster frowned. 'But the boy was with the Jarl and myself the entire time, until I left and presumably he was killed when Thorek Silver-Blood attacked Alsfur.' He withdrew into himself for a second. 'If I had been there, Thorek would be dead,' he growled. Tor recognised regret, and guilt. He was feeling it himself now as he wrestled with stubborn emotions that still declared Ulster a traitor. Blackmoore studied the other Nord; his eyes were clear, his expression fixed. _I'm wrong, _he admitted, and a huge weight lifted off his chest, only to be replaced by a crushing feeling of trepidation at the thought that the traitor was still in the court.

Instantly, Tor put aside any resentment he felt towards Alsfur for his current position, focusing on the bigger picture. 'Ulster, you are loyal to the Jarl?'

His face darkened. 'That's been made abundantly clear, Blackmoore.'

'There's still a traitor in the court. You have to find him,' he commanded, his voice hard as stone.

Ulster eyed him. 'I have to? How can you be sure?'

'I didn't betray you in battle. You say you didn't-'

'I didn't "say" anything,' he emphasised icily.

Tor paused for a second, irritated, and continued. 'Alsfur won't believe my story, until you find the traitor. You are loyal to the Jarl, so you would find him regardless of how I might benefit from this.'

'And you know nothing about this man?' Ulster pointed out rhetorically. 'He might have fled by now.'

'But I'm betting he hasn't,' Tor countered, leaning as far forward as his chains would let him.

Ulster stood for a second, considering what Blackmoore had said. Secretly, Tor was far more invested in this scheme than he might have appeared to be. Now he had a chance at life, Tor was determined to take it.

Stormcloak turned his dark, expressionless eyes on Blackmoore, and nodded slightly. 'I will find this man. But if you're lying,' his voice sunk down, gaining an acidic edge to it; 'I will cut off your head myself.' He left the cell, and Tor sank back down to the floor, unsure whether he should be happy, or dreading the next few days.

**I hope that was good. Certainly there have been some shifting of character roles here, which I hope surprised some of you guys. Please review if you want to see Tor released from prison! Or, if you want Ulster to catch the traitor. Hell, review anyway! **


	58. The Lion's Den

**This chapter is one I've been planning for a long time. Yeah, and I'm pretty pleased with it, though I'm not entirely sure why. In any case, here you go. Please review! **

**The thanks; to Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! You really don't trust Ulster, do you? No, Tor shouldn't just trust him then and there, but I've got to say, you seem to hate everything that makes up a good-guy character, like loyalty, etc. But it's fair enough; you can think what you want. Quick note; actually Ulfgar is second in line to the throne. Ulster is behind him. You really don't like Ulster, which is a cool. His POV is next, so we'll see what happens. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'm not sure if Arras is dead, yet. It's not confirmed. He is not a Wind-Shifter; it was just a phrase. He is not connected to them in any way blood-wise. Glad you liked it! Thanks to everyone who reviewed etc. **

**It's test season isn't it? Well, good luck to everyone; my last one is in a few days. Please review if you have the time though, and I'd be very grateful! **

**Casta Allectus **

**The Bloodworks stank of piss, **rats, and, of course, blood. It hit the nostrils with an acidic sharpness that felt as if it was literally burning away the soft tissue. Casta Victorus Gaius Allectus coughed, and tried to breathe in through his nose as little as possible.

Casta had found himself still in the Imperial City when he had woken up, but in a place he had only ever regarded with a level of disdain; the Arena. It was hundreds of years old, created by Gaiden Shinji, a great warrior, when his people needed entertainment and even now it still existed, spilling blood for the people, especially in this time of crisis. And that was what frustrated him most of all.

His fury, and incredibility at Caro's stupidity was like a wild beast, trying to rip its way from the chains forcing it down. There was a fucking war going on, one he needed to a part of, yet here he was, performing for the masses. Casta had to wrestle his fury down, else it threatened to fill his mind with red rage, as untameable as the mob waiting in the stands above. He heard them roar with delight as another victim was sent to be torn apart at their cries and jeers. It was a rare thing, but Casta reckoned he had never despised human life as much as he did now. _Perhaps the elves have it right after all; they don't throw their men away for sport._

Looking around though, that was unfair; every man present, hard faced, grim and savage had chosen to take up a flute and try to get the snakes to play along; hell, to love them. Indeed, for some, a talented peasant fighter, this was the way to glory and riches they had only ever dreamed about. Truthfully, Casta had dreamed of the same thing in his youth, but the Legion had been his escape; fighting, yes, but for a cause. Honourable or not, it gave him purpose. In a way, he only wished he could have served in the Septim Legions; _a far nobler, purer time, without so much of the politics, _he reflected wistfully, a hint of bitterness creeping discretely into his tone. It wasn't the first time though; the acrimony was like black bile, and it threatened to choke him and his eventual purpose; escape the arena and rejoin the Legions. It was a naïve hope now, but soon, it might just become a reality. Casta had faith. After all, if you didn't have that, you have nothing. He had already tried to make an escape, but the guards on the door… They unnerved him just enough to know they were not loyal to the Emperor. To all intent and purposes. he was an eager volunteer.

'Attention up front,' the man barked. Allectus snapped up to see a broad man, squat with a bald head. He worked for the Blademaster, the man who organised the entire spectacle the mob watched on the bloody sand above them. Here, his word was law; he ruled the Arena totally, save the Battle Master or Matron, who trained the Grand Champion, the most feared warrior Cyrodiil, who might stand up to his tyranny.

'What?' Allectus asked, squinting.

'The Blademaster is ready for you.'

'Fantastic,' Casta joked dryly. He stood up from the wall where he was sitting and followed the man into a side area of the Bloodworks, away from the training area that made up a circle around the central, underground base of the arena. The training area was located under the ground, but the shouts could obviously be heard clearly, and blood dripped from the roof as a morbid reminder of the fate of every gladiator. The Blademaster's office was set off to the side, separated from the scum of the pits by an oak door. They passed through that now, into a square room, spacious and clean. The Blademaster sat behind a desk with neat stacks of parchment resting on either side. He was dressed in iron plate, old and worn, but strong nonetheless. His face was dark, and cragged. The Blademaster was a hard, organised man.

'Who the fuck is this?' He took one look over Casta. 'Another for the Bloodworks?' he asked sarcastically, before smiling nastily. 'Why is he here then?'

'He's been waiting for a fight for several days now,' the man told his master.

'Has he? I can see why. Who would bet on this piece of shit?'

Casta sighed, and gritted his teeth, letting it all wash over him. _My duty officer was far worse. _Anxiety was beginning to creep up his chest though; Allectus had counted himself lucky that he hadn't fought yet. But obviously that wasn't what they did here. To be fair though, it was a miracle he hadn't been a combatant yet. The battles lasted all day; they were always looking for people to fight for the mob.

'Fine, the Bloodworks is getting rather clean. Send him up.'

A jolt of cold panic rushed through Casta as he realised that this was it. _I'm going to have to fight. _His swordsmanship was adequate at best; Allectus knew how to fight in a massive battle, but against a trained, vicious one on one enemy, he didn't favour his chances.

'Come on then.' The man pushed Casta from the office and directed him to another room; the armoury. The weapons were barely locked up. After all, these men were volunteers, and the occasion slave, who could be trusted to leave well enough alone. The armour rested on shelves, which Casta viewed with distaste. _Dressed for the slaughter. _Maria might have attended the funeral, if she knew, but he didn't really care. That part of his heart had always been empty; her affair had done little to change that. His daughter however; Selvia's face flashed across his mind, illuminating it with a whirlwind of colour, giving him hope. That was his only other reason to live, and escape. _It seems I'm going to have to win. _

Casta frowned at the thought, consumed by dread, but he forced it from his mind, instead running an expert eye over the armour available. Some was heavy, with plate in places, other were light, utilising mail or leather. All were cheap. _It'll give me little protection, but then, my opponent will fare no better. _

'I'll take the light leather,' he said, resigned to having to fight for his life.

The man snorted. 'Only women take the leather.'

'Only the women ever live,' he remarked dryly. Their survival rates by approval from the mob were much higher than that of men, for the few that entered the pit.

The man shrugged and pulled out one of Casta's size and thrust it at him, as well as bracers, greaves and a small helmet, but he declined that. Allectus knew he was taking a gamble, but his current strategy depended on speed and vision. He quickly pulled the armour over his head and fastened the straps with fumbling fingers as his heart began to beat at a rapid pace, like an army of legionnaires. This arena was far worse than any battle; the anticipation drained the life from you, and the colours dulled your senses, giving you the impression that you were already dead. Casta hated it with vehemence; he preferred to decide his own destiny.

'Now, choose your weapon.' The man indicated a rack of weapons, all made of simple steel, with cheap hilts. Casta eyed them distastefully, but reached for a sword in the style of the Imperial Gladius, testing the balance in his hand; it was crap, but it would have to do. He pulled up a medium sized round shield as well.

The man was grinning when he turned back to him. 'Ready for this, then.' It wasn't a question.

Casta nodded and the man led him from the room, to the entrance up to the pit. Other gladiators began to gather round to watch another of their group head into up into the jaws of the lion, their faces guarded, some sullen at not being picked. Casta still couldn't quite work out what the hell anyone who wasn't a political prisoner was actually doing here, voluntarily. _You can take my fucking place. _

The gate that separated the training area, now suddenly the embodiment of safety in Casta's mind, rattled open, sinking into the floor. He stepped through, hefting his sword uneasily, as the gate slammed back up, trapping him like some kind dog behind rusted iron bars. With a deep breath, he turned to the Bloodworks proper.

A long, curving tunnel led the way to the surface, into the baking sun above, and the stadium filled with people eager to forget the war, relishing a small battle they could control. Blood covered the walls, and floor, sickly red, dark and clotted. It ran down from the arena floor sometimes, when a man was killed close enough to the Bloodworks on either side, and blood coated the floor like a river which had burst its banks, bringing it with it death and destruction. Casta couldn't help but think that would be his blood there, soon enough.

Allectus tried to step forward, but his nerves left him, and he stayed for a second, still, as the other gladiators watched. His legs felt like blocks of ice, unmoving and cold, unrepentant to his needs. Panic surged through his mind and Casta took a deep breath, trying to block out the blood that surrounded him. He thought of Selvia. Her warm face provided some comfort, and he wondered what she was doing now. _Would she be crying, having been told her father was a traitor? _His heart clenched with furious anger as the consequences of Imperial politics made itself even clearer, and he took a step. The walls of blood peeled back slowly, and then he was in the sun, in a small area between the Bloodworks and the arena proper.

The harsh sand reflected the light painfully, burning Casta's eyes, and he shielded himself. The sun was facing in his direction, and hot; one of the hottest days he had experienced. Touching the loose grains spilled across the stone platform he stood on, Casta realised they were scorching. He flinched on contact. Drawing himself up, Allectus eyed the crowd; they were hungry for blood. _Just like the Dominion. _And yet, they watched him wearily, like he was some kind of animal; maybe he was, to them. _After all, I did sign up for this. _That made him smile dryly. 

As he watched them, a voice boomed out over the stadium, clear and cultured. 'Welcome, spectators, to the Imperial Arena!' Cheers went out, and Casta could feel the mood from here; he barely recognised the people around him. Even in Skyrim, they stopped short of death for entertainment. The Empire didn't; _The Dominion doesn't stoop so low either, _he thought, slightly upset. They didn't hold games, he was certain. 'Here, we have a match for you; two mud-dogs!' An audible groan issued from the crowd, but the man ignored it. 'They are eager to fight,' _Am I? '_So with no further ado, here, we, GO!'

Casta's gate rushed downwards, opening and he stepped through, trying to block out the sun. His shield was heavy, and he pulled it up his arm, trying to adjust it, before a sword slammed down.

Allectus barely had time to block, and he fell back, his mind snapping to attention. The Imperial facing him rushed forward furiously, and Casta realised with an all pervading chill, from his stance and grip, that the man was a more talented fighter than himself. He wasn't outclassed though, but as he fell back, warding off blows, he knew very quickly he would lose eventually.

The sun shone brightly, wearing him down in a hot fug, and Casta moved back, further towards his end of the arena. He knew he had to break free soon, or die. With a roar, Allectus leapt forward, slamming his shield into the man's face. He let out a cry, but parried Casta's follow-through, and spun round Allectus' raised shield, swinging out his sword at the same time. Allectus went to one knee, throwing up his shield over himself and slashing out his blade. The men lifted his leg smoothly to avoid the strike and slammed down his sword with all his might, using his momentum, but it deflected nicely off Casta's shield, who thrust out, hoping to kill his opponent. The other gladiator interposed his own shield amazingly, having been caught off balance, and blocked the blow. This all happened within a matter of seconds, and they broke off, shocked by the sudden burst of violence and adrenaline. Casta stared at his opponent and realised he looked uneasy. The scars on his face indicated battle, and with a start, Allectus realised he was a former legionnaire, which made the whole thing that much more uncomfortable. That wasn't why he was uneasy though; he looked scared, as if he shouldn't have done what he did. The grumbles from the crowd confirmed Casta's suspicions; he was fighting to please. With a grin, Allectus realised he had no such qualms.

The other gladiator moved in slowly, moving his sword from side to side, in an attempt to distract Casta. Allectus snapped his eyes up from it with a curse as the man advanced suddenly, swinging his sword in an arc. Casta tried to go under, and thrust forward, but the man was feigning and before he could pull back, blood spilled from his arm.

Allectus gazed down at the scarlet liquid, painting his hand a bright red that shone only too clearly in the bright sun. A roar of approval went out from the crowd and Casta quickly pulled back, raising his shield clumsily, pain stabbing through his sword arm. The man didn't let up this time and Allectus was hard pressed to parry his blows while trying to keep the sun out of his eyes. The hot sand hit his feet as they shuffled and he let out a grunt of discomfit.

The man whipped out his shield, staggering Casta, before swinging wildly, like a manic, with his sword. Allectus sprang back, scared of his ferocity and the blade slashed past his face, cutting it and then down, opening his thigh in a burst of red fire. Casta gritted his teeth, fear crawling up his stomach, locking its claws around his heart. He let out an animalistic roar of pain and distress, and barged forward, catching the man by surprise. The gladiator fell back, but spun, slashing Casta's back. He fell to the sand, his armour having protected him, and the man stamped on his shield, breaking the wood from the straps, but Casta quickly raised himself, his breath coming out heavy. The sun was draining Allectus' strength; the other men looked less affected; perhaps he had been stationed somewhere in Hammerfell. He was used to it, but Allectus was losing the will to fight, and when that happened, you might as well already be dead. That was when his brain kicked in.

The sand rushed up into his mind with startling accuracy. He remembered the heat, and the leather covering his sweating hand. He glanced at his opponent, who was happy to watch him for now. The gladiator was facing towards the sun; Casta could see he was having trouble seeing. If he could raise his eye-line, he would be blinded for a second. _It's all I need. _The Legion forced stamina into even its generals; he was sweaty and hot, but ready for a burst of energy. But the other man didn't know that; his weakness and failure to fight with vigour might have picked him out as a flashy sell-sword, hopefully, come to try his hand at the arena, as opposed to the battle hardened general he actually was.

It came together in a flash, and Casta sagged, pretending to be tired, weak. He dropped his guard a little and sucked in a deep breath. His opponent smiled cockily; all the better. Allectus took another deep breath; if this failed, he would die. _The Dominion will win, most likely. _It was time.

Raising his sword high, he rushed forward with no heed for his own safety, roaring. As he had expected, the man wasn't ready for a sudden burst of speed. His eyes flickered up, forgetting his training to stay in eye contact, scared, and the sun blinded him. He averted his eyes downwards as Casta's free hand, shield-less now, swept up some burning sand and threw it into his face. He screamed in pain as it entered his eyes and Casta lunged, flying through the air. The crowd let out a gasp of shock as his sword rammed straight through the gladiator's heart, into the scorching sand below. Blood began to spread out as the men regarded his torso with a dumbfounded look. More of the red stuff began to pour from his mouth and he started choking, gasping for breath. Casta watched him for a second, revelling in his victory, before pulling out his sword, and punching it downwards, into his brain. The man let out a final judder, and fell still as the crowd went wild. Allectus didn't let them have their hero though; he left the arena, leaving the bloody sword there, and made his way down the Bloodworks. Now it was over, sudden relief rushed through him like ecstasy. Despite the fact he had killed a man, he was smiling, his wounds forgotten. It all happened so quickly, and Selvia's face flashed into his mind, grinning. Joy gripped his mind; it all felt unreal.

The Blademaster waited at the bottom, his lip curled smugly. 'Well, well, I thought you'd win.'

Casta took a rough towel from the same man who had forced him out in the first place and wiped his face. 'Really?' he asked, sceptical.

'Oh yeah. Nord like you. You had an intelligent glint in your eye; a planner. I was expecting that trick. Clever, actually.' The man was obviously happy to give praise to those he felt worthy, Casta observed. 'So, now you're more than a sack of meat, what's your name?'

Allectus figured this was the way of the arena, and there was no point complaining about the lack of loyalty; _probably more here than there is in the city itself. _He was about to give him his Imperial name, but then Casta remembered the guards. He thought about the announcements, when he had to fight again. It wouldn't be safe to use anymore. Then, something else came into his mind; _I haven't used it in so long. Am I even the same person? _When he had become an officer, he had left his Nordic name behind. Allectus had been his mother's name, when she had married his Nord father. No one knew it; no one cared in the Empire. It was the length of the name that mattered, and the titles; Victorus. Saved for only the special few in the Legions. Casta looked up, smiling a strange smile.

'My name is Hadvar, of Riverwood. But you can call me Victorus.'

**Got you, didn't I? Review please! **


	59. The Battle of Wills

**Ulster's POV, finally. I guess it's time to see some things that you guys may not have expected (or may need proof of now.) Anyway, I think it'll be interesting, or at least I hope. It's pretty long as well. **

**The thanks; To General77, thanks for the review, but I've got to say, WTF? To BladeAgent99, thanks for the reviews! You like Sansa Stark? I kind of do too; I always found her POV interesting. Well, if Tor was less honourable, he probably would try and take control. But in saying that, you're forgetting a part of Alsfur's personality; he doesn't like taking advice from others, and would resent and overcome an attempt by Tor to control him, simply because, if nothing else, he's too prickly with his authority (that, and he can be a strong leader.) Also, Ulster's rule wouldn't be marked with corruption, etc. Maybe before, but I feel he's undergone character development. If he ever became Jarl, he'd be so obsessed with living up to Jon and Ulfric, his rule would either be really great, or very harsh. But, cronyism… not the way Ulster does it (he is a Stormcloak after all…) Still, its fair enough to make predictions (which I enjoy reading.) I'm glad you liked the Hadvar reveal! Well, he could be partly Nordic; it's just most of the time a child takes on Mother's traits. Also, I'll admit, I had no idea about this crazy bit of lore. A Dominion surrender. Hah, dream on… I'm glad you liked the chapter before though! To xlBlackfyre, thanks for the Story Follower. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! **

**Whoa, great reviewing this time! Thanks for that; I did think Hadvar would get some shock. **

**Also, there's been a lot of mistrust towards Ulster. At least you'll relate to what the other characters in this story think (which is great! Exactly what I want.) Time to let him tell it, I guess. **

**Anyway, this is the next chapter. **

**Carl Ulster Stormcloak **

**Tor Blackmoore's words were ringing **through Carl Ulster Stormcloak's head as he left the cell, making his way out of the darkness and choking air, and into the main hall of the Palace of Kings. It was here that Alsfur would make his vigil for the night, waiting for challengers. Ulster didn't expect anyone to fight his great-nephew, but nonetheless he quickly strode to his own quarters, where he had left his armour. He dressed quickly, calling in a squire to help him attach the plate pauldrons and scaled arm guard, before taking up his sword and shield. They felt heavy in his hands, and Ulster quickly slung the shield across his back with a strange foreboding and slid his sword into its sheath with a rasping grate. He grabbed his helm and made his way to the main hall again, watching for Alsfur. Tor Blackmoore's words returned to the forefront of his mind, but they were soon forgotten as he waited.

Ulster wasn't sure where the boy would be until it was time, so he stayed where he was, shouldering unpleasant glances that a few passersby's gave him. No one trusted him, but Ulster had expected as much. It was hard to remove an image, despite everything he had done recently for the family, and in his nephew's memory. Regardless of what he had thought about Jon before, his brother's son had proven himself a true Stormcloak. _Greater than I'll ever be, _he reflected glumly. _Alsfur though; he has the makings of a true leader, if I can strip the boy from the man. _Ulster had resolved to see him ascend in anyway possible, even if he did have to stand by a great bloody door all night.

Everyone who passed him now were making their way outside. During the vigil, no one was allowed to be inside the palace, save one crier, who would announce any challenge to the city with a massive horn. He wasn't allowed to talk to the Jarl though. _The Household servants will have to beg shelter from someone else, or hold a party, _Ulster thought, with little sympathy. He let out a frustrated breath, as there was still no sign of Alsfur, and was just about to search for the boy when he came down the steps, in full armour, covered by a black surcoat with the bear of Eastmarch picked out on his chest. He held Kodaav in one hand, unsheathed, and his shield was slung across his back.

'Ready, uncle?' he asked. His blue eyes were grim, but he looked calm. Ulster quickly pulled at his straps to check they were done up properly, like some kind of worried mother.

'You'll do,' he affirmed, and led Alsfur to the spot where he would hold his vigil, in front of the Throne of Ysgramor. Ulster stared up at it, and pursed his lips; it loomed over the hall, dark and powerful. When he had first seen it, well, really noticed it, as a boy of eight, he had been scared by the power it radiated. He still was. _It's a throne for kings, and only kings. _The Stormcloak's were the descendents of Ysgramor's second son, Ylgar; their claim to the crown of men was stronger than any other Clan or House alive. It was why tradition like the vigil was so important; _we lost the throne once. If we should ever hold it again, we will not lose it, _Ulster decided, tearing his eyes away from the stone. He looked back at Alsfur, who was trying to get comfortable from his place on one knee. Ulster smiled, feeling like his father, but then Jon flashed across his mind, fierce, and Stormcloak pushed the thought away.

'Don't rest on your knee all night or you won't be able to rise when the first man comes.'

'I'll fight him on the floor then,' Alsfur said boldly.

'Then you'll end up dead on the floor,' Ulster said sternly. 'Shift your feet every now and then, and stand if you have to. No one can actually see you in here, so you could probably throw a fucking party or all they care.'

'And if a challenger enters then?' Alsfur asked, smiling weakly.

'Then offer him a drink and see if you can get him drunk before you fight,' Ulster suggested, grinning.

Alsfur returned it, and placed Kodaav's point-downwards, and stared at it. Ulster could see his reflection in the metal.

'It's a beautiful sword, isn't it?' he muttered, half to himself.

Jon's son looked up at him. 'Do you regret it?'

Ulster snapped his gaze away. 'What?'

'Not being Jarl. Going to war, and losing out the chance to be your father's heir?' Alsfur was looking resolute, even at Ulster's sharp glare. The elder Stormcloak realised he wasn't going to drop this.

'Yes, I do. I was wrong about your Father though. Jon made a good Jarl.' _Though likely due to those around him. _'I still wanted my chance, even so. Not anymore.' He eyed Alsfur meaningfully. 'Be careful; you have to survive until sunrise. If you are still alive, or undefeated, you will be Jarl, even in the middle of a duel.' He was about to leave on those words, when Lady Ysold entered the room, with Ulfgar, Alsfur's younger brother. When she saw him, her eyes darkened, washing away the pain for a second, and her mouth tightened. Dismay spread through Ulster at the sight of her, and irritation; Lady Ysold was less than kind to him. Her hair was in disarray, and she clutched Ulfgar like he was the last thing left to her. Ulster raised an eyebrow at the sight, and turned to face them.

'What can I do for you, my Lady?'

Ysold glared at him angrily for speaking, and knelt by Alsfur, letting go of her precious burden. Ulfgar wandered over to Ulster, who ruffled his hair. They seemed to be the only Stormcloak's on good terms at the moment.

'Are you okay? Have you got everything you need?' she asked, tenderly. Ulster noted that she looked to be on the verge of crying now. Jon's wife was not mourning as he had expected her to; she seemed harried, and angry, as if he was only away, not dead. That in turn made Ulster wish he could summon more emotion for his nephew, but they had always been at odds. Jon had been a hard man, like himself. Those kinds of people didn't mix.

'I'm _fine_, Mother.' Alsfur spoke politely, but there was irritated steel beneath his tone. Ysold was more astute than any of the male Stormcloak's here, and she picked up on it instantly. She drew back, looking hurt.

'If you're sure,' she said quietly, and moved off quietly. Despite himself, Ulster actually felt sorry for her, and his gaze darkened when it returned to Alsfur. Ulfgar said his goodbyes quietly, and Ulster rushed into the gap left when the younger Stormcloak moved away.

'What in oblivion was that?' he demanded angrily.

Alsfur frowned. 'What?'

'Your Mother. She's just lost her husband, and is trying to look out for you. At least give her some patience!'

'What do you mean?' he asked, rising to his feet. He was taller than Ulster.

'When you respond keep the irritation out of your voice, boy,' he snapped. 'Have you even talked to her about Jon's death yet?'

'I don't think that's you're business, Carl Ulster,' Alsfur said, deadly quiet.

Ulster snorted softly. 'That trick may have worked on the dog, but you'll have to do more than that if you want to deter me.' Alsfur looked sullen, and Ulster took control. 'Now, when this is over, I want to see you with your mother, talking to her as if you were still her son. I don't care if you're the Jarl. It doesn't change anything.'

Alsfur's sullen look had been replaced with one of guilt; he knew he had been wrong now. 'I'm sorry, uncle.'

'Don't give me your apology. Give it to your mother.' The younger Stormcloak was about to go after her, but Ulster caught him, his face softening. 'Not yet, though. You need to survive this night. Then talk to her. She'll want you at your best.'

Alsfur nodded, but clearly he was still upset about it. He sank back to his knee, and Ulster nodded. That was how Alsfur would grow; by admitting his mistakes. The elder Stormcloak gave his shoulder a squeeze and left the hall, his footsteps echoing across the place.

Outside the hall, night had fallen. Ulster looked up at the sky distastefully and drew his sword, resting it point down on the stones that made up the central courtyard of the Palace of Kings. A chill wind was starting to creep in as the darkness surrounded him. But then, even in summer, winter never really left Skyrim.

Ahead of him, he could see celebrations beginning for the coming of a new Jarl, as was the tradition, but they were hushed, as the people waited to see if their new ruler would be a Stormcloak. Ulster let out a breath, which steamed slightly in the cold air. He shifted his position, and looked at the gathering dusk. Soon it would be pitch black; already the servants were arranging torches around the courtyard to ensure there would be light for any fight that might take place.

Ulster was about to doze into a trance, when he felt a presence by his side. He glanced round sharply to see Ralof Wood, dressed in messily in a white shirt and dark breeches. He held a mug of ale in one hand, but it had hardly been touched.

'Don't fall asleep on the job now,' he said coldly. None of his usual mirth penetrated that bleak tone.

Ulster frowned angrily, annoyed by Ralof's, seemingly permanent, accusing tone. 'Shouldn't you be doing a job? Avenging my nephew,' he asked nastily. 'Oathbreaker.'

Ralof's face hardened even more, if that was possible. 'I broke no oath.'

'Well, last I checked, Silver-Blood wasn't here. Unless you mean to tell me he's going to challenge Alsfur for the Jarlship.' Ulster grinned, self-satisfied; _that was a good comeback._ Ralof's glares and pointed looks had been easy to ignore at first, but eventually… _No man would be able to tolerant his self-righteous tone for more than a few minutes._ Ralof looked furious, but Ulster couldn't help but add the last bit, just to drill it in. 'Don't forget about Siddgeir, Wood.'

Suddenly, he lashed out, swinging a punch straight into Ulster's face that sent him slamming back against the doors he was guarding. Pain jerked through his jaw, and Stormcloak rubbed it gently, glaring at Ralof. He drew up, and smiled. 'No wonder you were such a bad Housecarl. You punch like a girl.'

Wood nodded, his face white, before storming off. Ulster watched him go, and frowned. His reprimand of Alsfur came back into his mind, and Stormcloak let out a frustrated breath at his own pettiness. Ulster put the thought from his mind, and slammed his sword back down, as if to reassure himself that nothing else matters at the moment. He waited twenty minutes, but in the end it was futile; Ralof came back into his head, and more importantly, how he had talked to him. It didn't take a genius to see that Ralof was as loyal as you got. _What I said was cruel. But then, Windhelm is full of those that are soft of mind; _already Wood was beginning to face the hostility of one who should be fulfilling an oath, not drinking at a bar, even if he had a reason to stay. The looks he got, and the muttering behind his back; if he didn't leave soon to hunt down Silver-Blood, he would be exiled from all pleasant circles. _And if any man doesn't deserve that, it's Ralof Wood, _he admitted grudgingly to himself.

Ulster sank back into thoughts of nothingness as an hour passed. He began thinking of the sun by the second hour, and by the third, he had returned to nothingness. That carried him through the next few hours before he spotted a pleasant peasant girl. She only stayed to give him a drink of dark wine. It tasted like shit, but he smiled anyway.

He forgot the hour, but not his boredom. Stormcloak glanced around, hoping for something to relieve it, but nothing presented itself immediately. Ulster sheathed his sword and sank back against the wall. He closed his eyes, resting quietly, keeping his senses alert when footsteps sent ripples of energy through him and he drew his blade in one swift stroke, levelling at the neck of Carl Erik Blackmoore.

Rising slowly, Ulster kept his sword at the boy's throat, and placed himself in front of the door. With a jerk of more guilt, Stormcloak realised he had forgotten to tell Alsfur about the traitor in his haste to ensure he was ready. _After then._ Erik had the same angry look as his father, but he was dressed in full armour, with a longsword and a shield decorated with the gold bars of Clan Blackmoore. His curly hair fell across his face messily.

'Move aside, Carl Ulster. I have business with Alsfur Stormcloak tonight.'

Cold horror crept through Stormcloak at these words. For a while now he had been trying to protect Alsfur from the Blackmoore's, despite his great-nephew's best attempts to find a way to prick them. First, Tavia; sex after marriage was fine, but the honourable Tor would not regard it lightly if he heard rumours of a deflowering. _Then_ he had tried to play fair with the Thane at first, before he started accusing him of being a traitor, which still rankled Ulster. And now, it seemed his peacekeeping was for nothing; if Erik fought, and lost, there would be bad blood between the Stormcloak's and Blackmoore's for generations. It would end eventually, but only in fire and blood, and more quickly than not. The Blackmoore's acted decisively; the Stormcloak's were impulsive. Ulfgar would want vengeance if Alsfur was to lose. As for the Blackmoore's, well, they were loyal, until their Thane and Heir were killed in 'cold blood.' It would start a clan war, which would topple the Stormcloak's, if the war continued as it did. The Dominion, forgotten by most, stuck in Ulster's mind as well; a clan war would weaken Eastmarch, leaving them at the mercy of the Elves. _And that's just the Blackmoore's; should any of the other clans decide to join them… _

'Don't do this, Erik. You won't win,' Ulster warned him.

'I can fight,' he said coldly.

'No doubt, boy. But Alsfur has a skyforge steel sword, and armour. You wouldn't even be able to get through to him with that piece of shit,' Ulster growled, indicating Erik's sword.

'It's my right. Move aside, or I'll have to kill you.'

By all rights, Stormcloak should have been scared, but he had seen grown men make bigger threats during his life as a soldier. 'How many wars have you been in, boy?' he asked, amused.

Erik looked sullen. 'One.'

'I've been in five, and many other skirmishes besides. I've fought in Skyrim, Hammerfell, Black Marsh, even the Summerset Isles. I've trudged through scorching deserts, dark forests. I've been poisoned, I've been stabbed; at one point, I even had magic used against me. So, before you make a threat, check the person you're making it to,' he snarled.

Erik scowled. 'I'm going in there anyway.'

Ulster smiled. 'No, you're not.'

'How are you going to stop me? Are you going to kill me?' Erik grimaced, he knew he had the upper-hand. To do so would be murder.

Stormcloak swallowed nervously now. 'Are you sure you want to do this?' Erik didn't reply. 'The feud between both lines… it may destroy both of us, whoever wins!' Ulster barked, angry that the boy was so clouded with premature grief and guilt that he couldn't see this.

Erik nodded. 'But Alsfur is going to murder my father.'

'This is folly!'

'Move aside, carl.'

Ulster glanced from side to side desperately; the old traditions must be upheld, but they couldn't risk a clan war. The Dominion was approaching. Vile flashed across his mind; he would have been busy without his favourite pet. There was no way to stop this though… except…

The Housecarl turned and pushed open the doors, into the Palace of Kings. Alsfur still knelt before the throne, but he rose upon hearing the door open. He looked puzzled for a second, before his face became a mass of hurt and anger. 'What is this?'

Ulster glanced behind him. Erik looked dumfounded, still stuck outside, but he was quickly coming to his senses. 'I'm going to challenge you for the Jarldom.' The words came out cracked and heavy; Stormcloak had to force them from his mouth. His throat was dry with fear. He knew he couldn't say anything now about Erik, else his challenge would be rendered forfeit, and Blackmoore could take his place. _That can't happen. _

Alsfur nodded and strode past him, into the open air. Horns started ringing throughout the city as the crier took up his call, registered the presence of the Jarl in the courtyard. Ulster followed him, his heart sinking as he beheld the faces that were quickly gathering around him. Shock, anger, betrayal; when a Housecarl broke his oath, he was damned. Ulster saw Ralof in the crowd; his expression was unreadable. The Thanes pushed to the front to watch, with the peasants behind. They spilled from the courtyard in their masses.

_What's my honour worth anyway, compared to Alsfur's, or Erik's? _Stormcloak asked himself, trying to find some support for his decision in the recesses of his mind, but there was little comfort. So, he turned to the gods; _don't judge me harshly. This is for my Jarl, and my family. The bloodline, and Eastmarch. Surely there's honour in this? _

'Get ready to fight, Carl Ulster!' Alsfur barked from the other side of the courtyard. 'I wouldn't want to kill you without a weapon in your hand.'

Ulster averted his eyes from the crowd and tried to ignore their accusing looks, or the muttering. _At least Ralof will get a respite from his own rumours. _Embarrassment made itself heard in his conscious, and that seemed to be the most discomfiting part of this. Ulster pulled on his helm with shaking fingers and pulled off his gloves, feeling a fool when he realised he couldn't do it up with padded fingers. Helm secured, he pulled back on his mail backed gloves, and pulled down the visor. It fit his head nicely, and his own vision was less restricted, with his slit being wider and longer than that of Alsfur's, who wore a similar helm. Ulster drew his sword and slipped his left arm through his shield, ready.

There was no formality to it; Alsfur threw himself at the elder Stormcloak with a fury that Ulster had never seen before. He stepped back, his battle instincts taking over, calming his nerves, and caught the swing on his shield. Ulster shoved Alsfur away where he might have hit him and they circled, the elder Stormcloak becoming more and more aware of the fact that one of them would die at the end of this. _It can't be Alsfur… _The Jarl came back in again, wielding Kodaav with deadly skill. Ulster stepped back again, parrying with his sword, left, right, up. The steel rang as they met. Suddenly. Ulster ducked under a long swing and without thinking, he used his position under Kodaav to grab Alsfur's waist and haul him into the air, where he threw him down.

Jon's son hit the stone heavily and he let out a cry, but Ulster stepped back, shocked. _I can't beat Alsfur. But I don't want to die… _The two conflicting emotions rang off each other like their swords, trapping him in limbo, the first thought calm, honourable even, the second desperate and evil. _Unless… _The sun was beginning to rise; he couldn't see it yet, but the world was becoming steadily lighter. He could hold out until dawn, and then the vigil would be ended. _I could make my peace with Alsfur, and that would be it. _His mind refused to acknowledge the folly of the plan; he needed hope right now, more than anything else.

Alsfur was up again, and he let out a roar as he thrust forward. Ulster parried with his sword and knocked the younger Stormcloak's hand down with his shield, a harmless move. To his surprise, even as Kodaav's point hit the floor, Alsfur brought up his shield and it smashed across Ulster's face. He staggered back, the world a blur of colours and flashing lights. His helm had protected his face, but it had still hurt like the plains of oblivion. The bite of steel brought him racing back, and he swung wildly to fend Alsfur off, recovering his stance and posture.

Taking account of his injuries, he noticed a new cut on his arm. Kodaav had sliced right through the fucking castle steel. It wasn't deep, but it bled nicely, and his head was still ringing. _I need to keep Alsfur off me. _Before the Jarl could attack again, Ulster moved forward, his sword flashing. He was careful to avoid hurting Alsfur, only throwing him off guard in a desperate bid for time. The world was becoming lighter, but he dare not glance at the horizon, for fear of being hit again by Alsfur.

The younger Stormcloak caught his next thrust easily; it was a deliberately weak blow, and suddenly Ulster was fighting for his life again. Alsfur locked his great-uncle's sword between his shield and waist, whipping out Kodaav in an attempt to decapitate the elder Stormcloak. With a grunt Ulster ducked, and used his shield to knock Alsfur off balance at his shin, then twisted, tugging his blade with him, free of his great-nephew's grip. They faced off again, both breathing heavily. Ulster was beginning to sweat, even in the frigid Nordic night, but he was more concerned with Alsfur. He had knelt at vigil all night, his nerves shredded, waiting for a challenger, and now he faced one, it turned out to be his Housecarl. _Anger must be boiling through his system, and lethargy. _Besides, he was only a boy; Ulster was a man, fully grown and it was showing; he was in much better shape than Alsfur, despite the long night and enforced terror of having to survive the night. Suddenly, twisting lights washed through his mind, making him dizzy. He felt suddenly weak. _Shit. I've underestimated the force of that blow to the head. _

'Alsfur, this isn't what you think,' he blurted out quickly, trying to dispel the headache before the Jarl could attack again.

'What is it then?' he growled from behind his helm.

Ulster glanced nervously at the people surrounding them, fear pumping through his blood and twisting his throat. 'I… Trust me,' he begged, unable to say anything else. _What am I doing? _he thought, regret washing over his emotions. _How dangerous would a clan war really be? _Old history lessons flashed back through his mind; _blood and fire…_

'Trust you?' Alsfur repeated. 'Not again.' He swung down his sword and Ulster caught it on his shield easily, but hesitated with the return strike for fear of hurting the younger Stormcloak. Jon's son was not so inhibited. He ripped aside Ulster's shield and slammed his own into the Housecarl's stomach, driving the wind from his lungs. Ulster tried to suck in air, but it burnt his lungs and he coughed. Alsfur didn't let up at all. He whipped up his shield again, into Stormcloak's jaw. His helm cracked, and a burning pain tore apart Ulster's mind. He screamed as Alsfur kicked him.

The elder Stormcloak hit the ground in a fiery rush of pain. His vision was shifting like magic, and he could barely breathe. With effort, Ulster ripped off his helm, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. His jaw sent waves of pain through his mind, but there was no time to fix this as Kodaav slammed down next to his head. The cold ring of steel cut through the pain, briefly and Ulster found his sword. With a cry, he lunged for it, but Alsfur kicked him with frightening force as he leapt, and he rolled over the stone tiles. His sword was just out of reach, but Alsfur wasn't about to let up. He thrust Kodaav down with all his strength, abandoning his shield. Death flashed across his eyes as Ulster threw up his shield.

The skyforge steel punched through the wood and leather, and into his arm. The red-hot point stopped an inch from his face as a pain surged into his damaged mind. He screamed, and clawed for his sword, just out of his reach as Alsfur drew his sword out of Ulster's arm with effort. The red-hot poker was replaced with fire for blood, staining his surcoat a dark red.

The pain was threatening to overwhelm him, but with a cry, his good hand grasped his sword. Without a second thought, he swung it round, into Alsfur's side. Jon's son let out a cry and fell, dropping Kodaav. Ulster was sick onto the stone as pain washed through his body, making him nauseated, but he managed to stand with one hand, the other dead and limp. His breath felt like liquid fire, but he had to breathe, to live. His eyes, bloodshot, turned to see Alsfur standing, grasping Kodaav, advancing. Ulster watched his death slowly, not understanding what was happening. His sword fell from his grip as his fingers spasmed.

'Alsfur,' he croaked. Kodaav swung round, but with a burst of self-preservation, Ulster's good arm shot out, stopping the swing at Alsfur's own forearm. Without thinking, Ulster stepped in, and swung the same fist down from its place holding up Alsfur's arm, then whipped it back to catch Alsfur with his elbow. Jon's son staggered back, stunned from the blows, and swung Kodaav down onto his Housecarl's head, but Ulster knocked aside the weak strike, and kicked out Alsfur's leg. The Jarl fell to his knees and Stormcloak smashed his fist into the younger Stormcloak's face, felling him.

Ulster looked down at his Jarl as the crowd fell silent, his bloodlust burning away all other thoughts. His duty bathed his mind in cool colours, or maybe that was the wound, and he stepped back, as the sun rose. Ulster dropped to his knees, relief running through his body, but a movement to his left caught his vision, and he glanced round as Alsfur picked up Kodaav, and threw it.

The blade spun once and then hit Ulster, tearing through skin, muscle and bone, before lodging there, throwing Ulster back to the cold, _cold_ stone. Pain, like a wave, washed away everything, sharpening his mind unnaturally, and he screamed.

Alsfur's foot brought him back, briefly. His helm was gone, and his face was bloody and bruised, but Kodaav was held in his hand. The people were screaming for death, but he glanced at the sun, and drew back the blade. 'I'll see you in oblivion, Ulster.' And then he left, leaving his great-uncle bleeding in the middle of the courtyard. People moved past, and the blackness started engulfing his vision, dulling the pain. _Is this what it's like to die then? _His breath was shallow, but then another foot appeared in his vision, and the darkness began to recede.

'Carl Ulster Stormcloak. We meet again.' It was Clavicus Vile. 'You look like shit.'

The Housecarl spat out blood. 'Leave me alone.' He would rather die than see Vile again.

The Daedra knelt into his line of vision. 'But you haven't heard my deal yet,' he said gleefully. 'Okay, okay,' he said, quickly; 'I know you don't, _trust_, me,' Vile pronounced slowly, 'but the way I figure it, you don't have a choice. Simply, you betrayed me before. So, look at it this way; you work for me again, and I'll let you live.'

'Or what?' Ulster breathed.

'You die,' he said happily. 'So… what's your answer?'

'What do you plan to do?' It was becoming harder to speak. He didn't want to die; the fear was making itself heard, gripping into a chance at life like black claws.

'That's for me to know and you,' he tilted his head; 'to find out. Now… your answer,' he snapped, all mirth gone.

Ulster's mind raced through the possibilities; he could live, but he would betray Alsfur. He would betray Jon, everyone. Death lingered though, sending ripples of fear through his body. _I can't die, I don't want to. I don't, I can't, I don't deserve to! _This would be a disgraceful death; he would die without honour, save that he knew to be true. He wouldn't join his ancestors in Sovngarde, no one would mourn him. _All for a clan war. So the Stormcloak's and Blackmoore's wouldn't spill blood… to fight the Dominion. Maybe end… Civil War… _It seemed so important back then, maybe it still was, but now, he felt like a traitor. _But I don't have to die one. _

'No,' Ulster Stormcloak breathed.

Vile's face took on a furious anger, and the world started shaking around them. 'You'll regret this, Stormcloak. I'll make you suffer.'

Ulster thought about the pain beginning to ripple again through his body, the faces which stared at him in disgust as he challenged Alsfur, taunting Ralof, defying Jon, war, blood, lost titles. It all came back in perfect clarity; dead men, battles…

'I already have.'

**Somehow, I told you so, just doesn't quite cut it. **


	60. The Oathbreaker

**Thorek again! I really do love writing his POV, and this one was particularly fun to write. **

**The thanks; To Blade Agent99, thanks for the reviews! (Several of them, which was great!) Well, to each their own. If you don't like Ulster, well that's good because it explains why no one in the story likes him either. A clan war would be devastating; the Blackmoore army is no more powerful than the Stormcloaks, but remember, Alsfur is a competent general regardless of army size. It would be a blood bath. Anyway, the Stormcloak's giving up quickly to the Blackmoore's… you don't know the Stormcloaks. You'd have to utterly destroy them before they gave up. That said, I'm glad you respect Ulster; he isn't dead. That isn't a spoiler; I never said he was, so that's good I guess. Well, Alsfur is possibly the most heroic character I've got, so the fact that he's a dickhead just goes to show I guess. Still, Alsfur's not all that bad; he's just young. The traitor planned bits of this, though the squire was neither Vile or Ulster (Ulster as a 16 year old boy?) The Molag Bal story is a huge one I'm planning to write after this, seeing as many plot points carry on after the conclusion of the Season's Trilogy. It will be more based around the supernatural, Eragon style adventure quest than these GoT style ones. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Oh yeah, I'll elaborate on the Hadvar/Casta thing later. Glad you liked the chapter and yep, Casta's wife was cheating on him, and no, he has little emotion for her anymore. Ulster does have a lot of honour, true. Well, he never got a chance to explain, because that was more tragic; that said, he's alive, so that's cool. Don't worry, I'll try and make it know to Alsfur; a lot of shit goes down, so it's only fair that there is some light at the end of the tunnel. To TheApexCourier, thanks for the Follower, Favourite and Story Favourites! To Vospader21, thanks for the Story Favourite as well. To The Final Memory, thanks for the various favourites! Thanks to everyone who reviewed etc! **

**Well, this is it. By the way, ShoutFinder is writing a story called 'Torn'. It's about several author's Dragonborn's (Lots of fan favourites) being sucked into Pass, a weird limbo state where… well, I don't know yet. It's pretty epic and Jon Stormcloak is one of the Dragonborn gang. He's going to be making his entrance in the 3****rd**** or 4****th**** chapter. It's a great story so check it out! **

**Carl Thorek Silver-Blood **

_**Idgrod wasn't lying. Morthal is **__just about as shit as she told me it would be, _Thorek thought disdainfully from his horse, as he surveyed the town. Mud filled the street, the houses were built of loose wood, all threatening to fall down in a moment. _And the people look it too, _he noticed, and curled his lip as one of them approached him and his retinue of twenty soldiers. _Not enough to put down a rebellion, but they would enforce fear if need be. _

'M'lord. 'Tis most gracious of you to come,' the thin man spluttered.

Thorek raised an eyebrow. 'Quite. Where is this… disturbance?' Father had sent him to investigate Morthal's troubles, but given him little else to run on, only with the promise that it was a Silver-Blood province now.

The man looked uncomfortable. 'Mayhaps, you wish to speak to the Jarl?'

Thorek shrugged, but a feeling of dread, one he couldn't quite explain, rose up slowly. 'In the longhouse I presume?'

'Yes, m'lord-' But Silver-Blood was already gone.

He led his men into the town, glancing around sharply, taking in the sights and sounds of poverty and weakness. Morthal was obviously nothing like Markarth, Thorek's home.

Father had been succinct in assigning this duty; after their defeat at Alsfur Stormcloak's hands, he had had little else to do with anything but the war. Yet holding the Jarldoms was an important as any battle, and so Thorek had been sent to ensure Morthal, the problem child at the moment, resumed its smooth running. In truth, he wasn't sure how he felt about being given such a task. The first, obvious emotion, and strongest, was a sense of pride, quickly followed by the resentment of having to play baby-sitter to… Thorek glanced around, taking the people; _natives_, he decided, as he spurred his horse into the main square. Speed always looked more impressive when entering on a horse. His men had followed well, and they made quite an imposing site as they reigned in before the longhouse of Morthal.

_Highmoon Hall, Father had called it. More like Shitcreek. _Moss hung over the walls, if the thin, creaky wood could be classed as a 'wall.' There were scratches across the sides, as if some battle had been fought here, and the rough thatch that made the peak of the roof was a far sight off the moon. Thorek worked his jaw derisively as he took it in, and sighed. _At least it will be good to see Idgrod again. _Yet even that made him uneasy; _after all her talk of honour… I can't imagine the Ravencrones abandoning the Wind-Shifters. _

Nonetheless, with an easy swing, Thorek dropped from his horse, into the wet mud below. It splattered the ends of his customary silvery long coat, which reached just below his knees, and he sighed. _Thank you, fuckers, _he thought sarcastically, nodding his head in mock approval; _now I'll fit in perfectly. Just throw a little shit over me next, and perhaps even some of the horse muck! Yes, thank you! What would I have done without this shitty town and its new designing ideas, I don't know. _Regaining hold of his frustration, Thorek stopped his internal monologue, andstrode to the entrance of the longhouse. Two guards stood there, looking weary, but they crossed their spears as he approached.

'What do you want?' one them asked rudely.

'Oh, I don't know. Difficult question that,' Thorek snapped, sarcastic again. 'I was hoping the Jarl would have some quality wine. See, the one they serve in the inn, like this town, is bloody awful. Does that satisfy you?'

'I'll have you in a cell next time you talk back,' the guard said threateningly, but Thorek shrugged it off.

'So, will I, and these actual men,' he jerked his finger at his guard's behind him; 'will be only too happy to help. So, if you're done wasting my time.' He pushed past them and into the longhouse, gesturing for two of his men to follow.

As Silver-Blood had expected, Highmoon Hall reflected the town perfectly; poor, weak, and unwelcoming. Flames burnt low in the bronze candlesticks, and the whole place felt dreary. Instead of the heads of fierce Saber Cats or Bears or Wolves, the walls featured pathetic mounted mud crabs. The bronze was used too lightly, and without grace, confirming what any mud-splattered guest already knew; Morthal was a poor place. Done with criticizing the place, Thorek turned his attention to the Jarl. A blast of icy shock numbed his nerves, and he frowned, unsure what to make of this; no Ravencrone sat in the seat of Morthal.

'Who the fuck are you?' Thorek demanded, taken aback.

The Jarl was a slight woman, who also looked surprised by her guest's first choice of words, yet she did nothing to still Silver-Blood's tongue. A glance behind him gave her the confidence though.

'I am the Jarl!' It sounded rehearsed.

'And I'm Tiber Septim,' Thorek retorted. 'What happened to Idgrod Ravencrone, the Elder?' Suddenly, a hand appeared on his shoulder, and Silver-Blood followed it up to a man with a block of a head, probably with a brain to match.

'I'd watch your tongue, stranger.'

'And I'd watch that space,' Thorek gestured at the throne irritably. 'The woman over there's no keeper.'

'Did you threaten me?' the Jarl screeched.

'No, I just pointed out the obvious,' Thorek replied coldly. The man tightened his grip, but Silver-Blood's guard made their presence known. Blocky released his grip reluctantly and stalked off to stand by his Jarl, if she could even be considered that. 'Where are the Ravencrone's?' Thorek demanded again.

They exchanged a look, and the man, now obviously her Housecarl, spoke. 'You have the pleasure to grace the presence of Sorli Strongroof, called the Builder,' _if she built this town, she really deserves a fucking pat on the back, _he thought sardonically, still disgusted by his surroundings; 'Jarl of Morthal,' _that's got to be another joke, _'Lady of Hjaalmarch, and Marshal of the Mist Armies.' _Talos! They put __**this**__ woman in command of an army? No wonder they were losing the war. _

Thorek drew in a deep breath as the Housecarl came to a halt with his little monologue, desperately hoping Father had nothing to do with this. Morthal had only announced for the Silver-Blood's a couple weeks ago, in dubious circumstances. _Was it took much to hope the Ravencrone's could have turned their cloaks? _he wondered desperately. 'I was under the impression the Ravencrone's had declared for the Silver-Blood's.'

'Some of us take our oaths more seriously, Thorek Oathbreaker,' the Housecarl said darkly, smiling sickly.

The former Housecarl felt a wave of fear and discomfit wash through him, as well as deep embarrassment. 'I made no oath,' he protested quietly.

'You did, _Carl_ Thorek. To a King.'

'A dead king,' he pointed out quickly.

'Why else would you have sworn the oath, Housecarl?' he finished.

Thorek swallowed. He had almost as much control over the conversation as the Jarl had over her Housecarl, and it left him uncomfortable. 'Well, it had nothing to do with the sword at my throat,' Silver-Blood replied, hiding in his sarcasm.

'Just the one stuck in the king's?' The Housecarl asked innocently. Thorek loathed him already.

'Who the fuck are you?'

'Language, Oathbreaker. Did your mother ever teach you speechcraft?'

_Not after she and Father divorced. _Thorek kept his mouth shut, feeling weak and vulnerable. The Housecarl grinned. 'Nothing to say, Oathbreaker?'

'Stop calling me that,' Thorek hissed, trying to sound powerful. He didn't though.

'I didn't realise you didn't like that. You seemed to find your oath easy enough to abandon,' the Housecarl continued.

'Who says I've abandoned it?' Thorek asked defiantly.

'Skyrim does. Balgruuf's killer isn't one of us, after all; you have no place here.' _I'd be more than happy to run my blade through the both of you regardless. _

'I do have a purpose here,' Thorek said sharply. 'What happened to the Ravencrones.' If _Idgrod Senior wasn't here, then surely her daughter should be?_ But even as Thorek considered this, he knew it was a dying hope, and that twisted in his gut painfully, quenching the fire that raged around him on hearing 'Oathbreaker.'

The Jarl spoke up, surprisingly. 'They've gone away,' she declared.

'Where?' he asked brusquely.

'No where that concerns you, Silver-Blood,' the Housecarl snapped. His dread ran deeper, purging out his defiance, and replacing it with unexpected anxiety.

'Who are you anyway?' Thorek snarled, regarding him furiously. Oathbreaker rang through his head.

'Carl Gorm.'

'Gormless, you mean. I have business with the Jarl, not her pet, so kindly shut the fuck up.'

'I think you've done enough talking, and insulting Oathbreaker. What are you here for?' Gormless asked. The Jarl nodded along approvingly, Thorek noted, disturbed.

Silver-Blood became serious, and fixed his eyes on them. 'You declared for the Silver-Blood's, but we've been hearing reports of… discontent,' Thorek said. 'I'm here to ensure you fix that. We want no loose ends in our allies.' He smiled inwardly, smug and pleased by his delivery of that speech. It sounded deadly serious. They had seen his other side though, and Gorm was less cowed.

'You heard right. Rebels plague the noble Jarl's land. We need an end to it.' He smiled maliciously, his eyes glittering. 'They know our faces and our men. It has to be someone from the outside.' _I can guess where this is going. _

'So you want me to wipe up your mess,' Thorek concluded sourly, upset by how quickly the conversation flitted between them, control slipping from his hands each time. 'Well guess what, there's a lot of shit on the floor, and I don't clean up shit.'

'Then learn.'

'Find someone else,' Thorek said.

'There's no one else,' Gorm replied sharply. 'Besides, Jarl Markarth entrusted this task to you, _my lord_. Seems to me like you're the only one who is capable of fixing it, us being "incompetent" after all.'

Thorek glared at them, and cursed his stupidity. He nodded though, but couldn't keep the sullen look off his face as he strode from the longhouse and into the dirt of Morthal. His guards followed him outside, but remained dutifully silent on seeing their lord's expression. He curled his lip in disgust as he eyed the people passing him, before turning to his men.

'Find a place to rest, in the guard barracks perhaps. It seems I'm the new cleaner in Morthal.' He stomped off without another word, getting more dirt over his coat. Thorek pushed back his hair, ignoring the loose strands that fell back into his face, and made his way to the inn, feeling ridiculous. _No one ever learns anything in an inn; it's just a cliché. _Yet, Thorek had little choice, so instead he introduced his nose to a variety of new smells, each a little worse than the last. _And seemingly all originating from one man, _he thought, his eyes travelling over an immensely fat and unwashed peasant, who was laughing with his friends. Thorek shot him a revolted look, and turned his sights to a pretty bar maid, who was carrying some drinks over to a group of men. Thorek grinned, and made his way over, catching her arm gently, feeling that his day was just about to get better.

'Is one of those drinks for me, love?' She was obviously about to turn around and slap him, but then she saw who was talking, and changed expression so rapidly, Thorek let out a bark of laughter. The wench gave him an uncertain smile, and Silver-Blood moved in close, tracing a finger along her jaw. 'I can see why it's so busy here,' he said smoothly, his task completely forgotten.

The maid looked a little unsure at his flirting, but his clothes were obviously much richer than the men around him, and his swagger could only be purchased in a far removed dwelling. 'You see something you like, m'lord?'

He glanced over her quickly, and returned his stormy grey eyes to her own brown ones. 'Would it be too cliché to say yes?'

She was getting into this, and smiled. 'I'll be disappointed if you say no.'

Thorek gave her his most charming, flashing smile. 'Then how about I show you why I like you so much?'

'We have rooms for rent, m'lord. I cost a lot more, though.' Thorek nodded, raising an eyebrow in mock agreement, and the girl continued. She couldn't have been any more than eighteen. 'Which of Morthal's lords will I be getting acquitted with?'

Thorek smiled indulgently. 'None. I think you'll find silver is more than a match from bronze.'

She frowned, and took in the silver that fastened his belt, covered his sword hilt, the material of his coat. 'A Silver-Blood?' she gasped.

'A long way from home, I know,' Thorek said casually. They were cut off by a shout from a table nearby, and he turned to look down at two men, who were obviously waiting for their drinks.

'We want our drinks here, prick! Stop chatting up the help. You've had your time.' He looked stubbornly resolute, though he had to know Thorek was his superior.

'Unfortunately for you, I can pay for all the time I want. If I want to take her out back, I can. If I want your drinks, well, why not? You know why?' Thorek stepped towards them, his grey eyes flinty with darkly suppressed anger. 'Because I'm the one with the name, and you're not. It makes me better than you,' he explained, loving the looks on their faces.

The man stood. 'Yeah, you want to prove that.'

Thorek drew his sword; it slid from its sheath with a sharp rasp and gleam of silver. The edges were honed to the point they could pick off the loose stubble on the man's cheeks; Thorek always ensured his weapons were sharp. 'Test me, then.' The peasant jerked back away from the sword point. 'What a warrior,' Silver-Blood observed and turned away.

'Better a peasant than an oath-breaker, Silver-Blood.' Thorek started, and whipped back round, but people were watching now, smirking. He swallowed, caught out momentarily and stalked off to the bar, ignoring the girl completely. Furious, Thorek turned his attention to the bar itself, which was damp and covered in a strange liquid Thorek could only guess had to be a form of sick. Silver-Blood kept his distance from it and clicked his fingers for the innkeeper's attention, which was a waste of time, as she was already watching him suspiciously, afraid of what he might do. Gratified by this, Thorek smiled, and lowered his voice.

'I'm looking for a friend.' He had no idea what he was doing even as he spoke. _After all, I'm not a bloody member of the Dark Brotherhood. _Nonetheless, the group he was trying to hunt obviously had little connection with the nobility, or at least not Gormless and his useless Jarl; the bar-keeper was suitably low enough on the social standing to provide the information he needed.

The innkeeper took in the look on his face and refrained from insulting him. 'Pardon, lord; I don't understand what yer saying.'

Thorek regarded her accent distastefully. 'Likewise, I think.' He sighed as she glowered at him with a sudden dark look; _some people just can't take a joke. _'Fine. Do you know anything about this bastard who has been tearing up the hold?'

The woman shrugged. 'Only what you hear.'

'What do you hear, then?'

She sighed, but knew better than to argue with a noble. 'It started a couple of weeks ago, after a big prison breakout.'

'There was a riot?' Thorek asked, frowning. _Father would never have let that happen. But then, obviously the Jarl is a useless bitch. _He remembered the way Gormless had talked, and overrode her; it seems the dog has become the master. His own days as a Housecarl, servitude to Balgruuf, still fresh in his mind, flashed back vividly and he winced as he recalled his new nickname. _I'll have the tongue of the next man who utters it, _he decided impulsively.

'That's what I said,' the innkeeper snapped, openly annoyed by the interruption to her daily business.

'Well, listen to what I say. Lie to me about your allegiances, and I'll have your traitor tongue,' he said, his voice as sharp as his blade.

'I see only one traitor, Oathbreaker.' _Where has that name come from all of the sudden! _He glared at her, breathing heavily, ready to make good on his promise, but instead whipped round and out, into the summer air. Once there, started kicking the ground furiously, his hands bunched into fists so hard, blood was beginning to prick beneath his fingernails.

Thorek's anger dissipated in a rush of emotion and he made his way towards the longhouse, frustrated and tired. _They want to find the traitor; they can do it themselves. _Likely as not, the prisoners would regard the Oathbreaker with less honour than themselves. _It all comes down to honour, doesn't it? _

Silver-Blood slammed through the door of the longhouse, and back into the presence of the most useless Jarl in Skyrim and her Housecarl, the most political warrior in Tamriel. _Someone should give them a medal. _Jarl Sorli was eating from a dish, brought to her throne, while Carl Gorm watched everything with dark eyes, looking tense. He stepped forward on seeing Silver-Blood, looking guarded.

'Back so soon, Carl Thorek? I was convinced it would be a task that would take all day for you.' Sorli smiled, and watched him with a self-satisfied look, as if she had been the one to tell the joke.

'Yeah, I am. Your town's so full of conspiracy; you'd have to be a pair of fools not to see it.' Thorek smiled, looking over them. 'Fortunately, you two are perfectly apt for those roles. Ask around the prison; the traitor is a jailbird, or birds. I don't know how many, or where, but now I've started it for you, it seems as if you could be a big boy, and finish it off.' He talked to Gorm now; the Jarl was a useless set of eyes and expressions, stuck onto a cheap body.

Gorm smiled mirthlessly, which suddenly put Thorek on edge for a reason he couldn't explain. It was the Jarl that spoke though.

'Then maybe we should just leave it there. The traitor is doing little actual harm and one day he'll make a mistake, I'm sure of it,' she said uncertainly.

Gorm stepped forward. 'Well, unfortunately, _I_ can't leave it there.' They both glanced round, the Jarl frowning as the guard's stepped forward.

'But I'm the Jarl; what I say-' The flash of steel caught Thorek off guard and he jerked back, as red blood flew from the Jarl's throat. Hands grabbed Silver-Blood's throat and kicked out his legs, and Thorek fell to the ground, unable to push up from the hands pushing him down to the wooden floor.

'You were the Jarl,' Gorm corrected, before turning to face Silver-Blood, who was looking on, stunned. His blood was pumping at a rapid pace as Gorm threw aside the dagger he had used to kill the Jarl, and clicked his knuckles. 'It's very difficult to get good help, Oathbreaker. Balgruuf could testify to that, I'm sure.' Thorek struggled against his captors, but they had grips of iron, and he sagged as Gorm drew out Silver-Blood's sword from his sheath. 'This is a truly beautiful blade. You know,' he added, gesturing around him; 'it's likely worth most of the shit in here.' He fell quiet and murmured; 'probably worth more than all of the titles of Morthal.' He drew out Thorek's dagger as well.

'You're an oath-breaker,' Silver-Blood said with quiet intensity.

'Says the Oathbreaker.'

'At least I never killed my lord, coward.' Thorek spat at Gorm's feet. Without a second's hesitation, the Carl whipped out his arm with the speed of a snake, and a flash of red light echoed through Silver-Blood's mind. He sagged again and spat blood onto the floor, before returning a defiant gaze to Gorm.

'Oh look,' the Thorek smiled mirthlessly; 'it isn't silver after all. Who knew?' He got another punch for that.

'You're just as much a rat as I am, Thorek Oathbreaker.'

'Stop calling me that,' he hissed.

'Or what?' He punched Silver-Blood again. 'Tell me? What are you going to do?' He landed another blow which sent Thorek sprawling. The next kick caught him in the ribs and he crumpled into himself, trying to draw breath, but Gorm pulled him up. 'I'll stop there. We wouldn't want to get blood over that expensive coat, now would we? Besides, I'm not done with you.' He clicked his fingers at the guards, and they hauled Thorek up and pushed him from Highmoon Hall.

He staggered into the mud, into one of the bodies of his own men. His throat had been hacked apart. Thorek curled his lip in disgust. 'You killed my men.'

'Is there a problem, Oathbreaker?' Gorm asked.

'Yep. The throat cut was shoddy. Small wonder Morthal gets it's arse kicked in wa-' He didn't manage to finish that taunt; The Carl's kick sent nauseating pain through his lungs and head. The follow through punch drew more blood.

'Not so pretty now, Silver-Blood.'

'Still better than you,' he grinned. Gorm's punch felt like lightning, fallen to earth; _I should probably stop baiting him, _he reflected grimly. 

Thorek was dragged away from his men's bodies, and despite himself, he couldn't muster that much sympathy for their deaths, what with his own situation at present. Unsurprisingly, he was forced to the guard's barracks, and down into the damp conditions below. They reached the door separated the free from the condemned when Gorm stopped his little gang.

'Listen here, Oathbreaker. You're going into that room, and you're going to bring me the name of that traitor. If not, well, Thongvor was quick to disinherit you once. He won't miss you much.'

Thorek spat out a goblet of blood, onto the rough stone floor. 'If you kill me, my Father will reign blood and fire upon Morthal. And I'll be there, to kill you with my own hands.'

'You'd be the first to escape from oblivion,' Gorm remarked dryly. 'As for daddy Silver-Blood, well, the King will protect me.' _Another Balgruuf jibe, _Thorek thought bitterly, pushing it from his mind without another thought. 'Now, get going.'

The door was thrown open, and Silver-Blood was hauled out of the corridor, and onto the cold stone below. He winced with pain, and picked himself up slowly, looking around at the men who were staring at him through their bars. Thorek nodded his head, ignoring the curious looks at what must be his very bloody face. 'Weather's nice, outside. Not that you'd know.' He smirked. 'Okay, who's part of this rebellion then?' No one answered him. He looked around, taking in their dark faces behind close bars, just wide enough to fit a hand through. One person recognised him, and spat at his feet.

'Oathbreaker!'

'Do that again, and you won't have a tongue to spit with. Get it?' He took in the man who had spoken up; short, square faced, but with a resolute glare. 'Who are you?'

'I was the Captain of the Guards, Oathbreaker. I did my duty to the end, unlike you.'

Thorek's anger shot up like a fiery beast, but he managed to wrestle it into submission, before pushing back his hair. It was a calming motion. 'Then you'll know about everything that's been going on here.'

'Might be I do,' he said stoutly.

'Let's find out.' Quick as lightning, Thorek grabbed the man's shirt and pulled him forward, into his bars. He let out a cry and Silver-Blood secured a better grip, yanking him forward again, smashing him against the steel. His nose broke in a spray of blood and a scream echoed through the cells. The captain was breathing heavily, but he smiled anyway. 'Looks like we match now, Oathbreaker.' In a blind fury, Thorek slammed him against the bars again and again until he fell, unconscious and then whipped around, his expression murderous. _If I don't get this fucking name, I have no doubt Gormless will keep his promise. _He glanced at the door nervously and bunched his fists. 'Who's next?' One man snorted, but he was an idiot; he had failed to retreat into his cell. His teeth broke when they hit the metal bar, and his hip, when he was sent crashing to the stone floor. His screams of pain rang through the cell, encouraging less resistance. Thorek felt strangely alive as his fury consumed his mind, mixed with icy dread of the armed men outside.

Fear made men stupid, and Thorek must have looked fearsome. One man spoke up. 'His name's Djurien, m'lord. Don't hurt me.' He was a lanky youth, who was cowering in his cell, far from Thorek's fits anyway. It didn't dispel the fear factor though.

'Where?' he snapped.

'In the forest, north, there's a small cave. He's probably in there.' '_Probably' won't keep me alive. _

Thorek spun on his heel without another word, wiping the blood off his hands with the end of his soiled coat, and grimacing. He sent up a quick prayer to the gods and pushed open the door. Gorm was waiting with a sneer, his eyes glimmering with a sharp, excited light.

'What did you find out, Oathbreaker?'

'Your traitor's name is Djurien, and he's hiding in the forest.' Fear flitted across Gorm's face so quickly Thorek was sure he imagined it, before his usual expression of cold contempt returned. Despite this, he didn't look surprised, only muttering something about a knight.

'You'll leave tomorrow then,' he sneered, and Thorek sighed.

_Oh shit. _

**That's it. You know, HL said to make things happier, but you know what? I'm going to kill them all, ha aahahahahaha! No one back chats me! **

Thorek was stabbed by Gorm. And died. Djurien choked on a berry. And died. Gorm became King of Skyrim and lived happily ever after. Then died. The end.

**Good right? Well, hope the chapter, and the new ending was decent. Please review, or Alsfur and Ulfgar are dying next. (**Crazy look**) You don't think I'll do it? I will! **(Licks lips with a psychopathic glare.) **Review! **


	61. Against The World

**My computer was busted for several days, so sorry that this got caught up. It's here now, so I guess that's good. Nelkir is always fun to write mostly because everything is so obviously unfair! (Well, remember he is a teenager.) **

**The thanks; to Sweet Talos in Sovngarde, thanks for the story follower! To Blade Agent99, I like loads of reviews, so post five for all I care! Oh yeah, it is a bit like Tywin. Nope, Djurien's not. Yep, Morthal needs someone to deal with all the stuff that is going on at the moment. Cool, fine by me. If you actually like the Silver-Blood's, then I have succeeded in my task. In al honestly, Thongvor would make the best king out of everyone in Skyrim, save one person. You don't want the Thalmor to win? Okay, nice idea with the King in the West and East. I didn't think about that. I can't make any promises, but I will say that, well, actually I can't say anything. You'll have to see. I'll leak more details as we get nearer to the end of this story. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Oh yeah, people have a lot of nerve for calling Thorek Oathbreaker. The Jarl was Sorli and I'm glad you liked her death. It was necessary, in a way. You'll see. Djurien will explain how he is alive later. You'll see who the traitor is later. Oh and for Dragonblood, thanks, and Bend Will might play some role; I haven't decided yet. Dawalkindude, thanks for the Favourite and Story Favourite. Anyway, thanks everyone. **

**More Nelkir action. (Well, action?) This chapter is definitely an emotional angst trip, but to be fair, you guys loved (according to the reviews) 'The Passing' (Jon's Funeral), so in a way, this is more of the same stuff. **

**Nelkir White **

**Nelkir White woke to a **canopy of faces, all staring down at him. One of them hushed another and peered in closer, their eyes reflecting the light of the torches nearby. The fuzziness cleared from Nelkir's vision, and he recognised the people standing round his bed.

'Hello,' he said, bemused.

Thaena squealed with delight and hugged him. It was electrifying to the touch, but also sent sharp pain through his body as she hit his wounds. Nelkir didn't complain. Marco grinned, but Carrion and Farman looked a little sheepish. White's emotions felt dry, but were beginning to gain life again.

'You're hard to kill, Nelkir,' the Imperial observed.

Thaena shot him a dirty look, but he didn't look that apologetic. Obviously, the events of… whenever, were not to be discussed.

'So, what happened?' White asked immediately. 'What are you all doing here?' His eyes roamed across them, but moved away when Thaena returned his glance, and Nelkir felt a strange flush run through him.

Farman looked even more uncomfortable than the bastard. 'You fought Arras, remember?'

The memories came rushing back painfully. 'Right.' He frowned. 'What are you doing here then?' Nelkir asked coolly. He still remembered their betrayal, and it raced to the forefront of his mind with vivid clarity.

'Look, we're sorry for… doubting you,' Carrion began, but the Bastard cut him off.

'Doubting, huh? I call it betrayal.'

'I saved your bloody life,' Farman interjected angrily. Nelkir nodded; he remembered seeing a Redguard's hand catch the dagger. 'We're quits, okay.'

White wanted to argue more, but a glance at Thaena told him to drop it. Nonetheless, his tone was icier than it should have been. 'Fine.' _It's not fine, though. Not really. _

Marco sat on a stool next to him, rubbing his face. 'Y'know, I'm just glad you're alive. Thank the Gods!' _When they don't betray you, _Nelkir reflected darkly.

'It was a pretty epic fight,' Farman added. 'I saw a bit of it, when I was… you know.' He subsided into silence, and Nelkir looked around at them all, his face dark with anger again.

'Can I have a moment alone with Nelkir?' Thaena asked sweetly. Carrion and Farman looked only too happy to be quit of the room, but Marco gave her a look strange look that Nelkir regarded with suspicion, before leaving.

Now they were gone, his anger abated a little, and he looked around. The room was dark, but dry and solid; lines of beds covered the wall space and there were several cabinets and a small office to one side of the long room. It was the medical area, for wounded Blades. _And foolish recruits, _Nelkir chastised himself. _It was a stupid thing to do, _he acknowledged, reflecting on his actions. _But still necessary. _That mollified him a little. 

Putting the thought from his mind, White looked up a Thaena with a weak smile. 'Look, I-'

'How could you treat them like that?' she exploded angrily, gesturing in his 'friends' their general direction.

Nelkir blinked, unsure about what to say, while she crossed her arms accusingly. 'Wait a second. They betrayed me,' he began, becoming frustrated.

'Marco didn't,' she countered furiously.

Nelkir frowned. 'Maybe, but Farman and Carrion-'

'Learnt from their mistake and saved your life.' Thaena looked really angry; it was kind of cute, now he thought about it. But the unjust accusation made him angrier, leaving room for little else.

'If they hadn't left me on my own, then I wouldn't have even been in that position!' he bellowed suddenly, standing now despite his wounds. Nelkir towered over her, but Thaena held her ground resolutely.

'Oh please. Your pride dictated you enter that duel.'

Nelkir scowled. 'My… my _pride_?' he scoffed. 'I have pride? I'm proud? I'm a fucking Bastard!'

'Oh finally!' she sneered. 'I was wondering when you'd realise that.'

Nelkir turned red with angry embarrassment and sat down on his bed. 'If they hadn't left me-'

'You'd have entered that duel,' Thaena said, 'and you might have been wounded, and we'd have been here. If you didn't listen to Marco then, I don't think you'd have listened to him regardless of the situation.'

'I might have,' Nelkir muttered, but secretly, Thaena was completely right. His pride did dictate that he enter that duel, regardless of the underdog badge he had tried to give himself.

They were silent for a while, simmering, but when Thaena spoke again, it was gently. 'You should lie down again. You don't want to get your wounds bleeding again.'

Nelkir did as she said and looked up at the ceiling, his jaw set angrily. The duel came rushing back completely now, and with a stab of cold shock he remembered how it had ended. Sitting up in a panic, he surveyed the other beds, looking for one person, becoming more desperate as he did so. 'No, no, no,' he started muttering, and Thaena looked up guiltily, as if she knew what he was going to ask.

'What happened to Arras?' she prompted gently. Nelkir turned to her, his face taunt and white. He nodded, and Thaena took a deep breath. 'He's dead.'

Crushing blackness marched into Nelkir mind with furious certainty. He sat back, not really shocked, more stunned, and his heart tightened so fast he winced. His breathes became shallow, and his throat closed up to the size of the wound that has killed Arras. _It was only a dagger. It can't… _Of course it could. Nelkir had never actually believed that his nemesis would survive, nor had he predicted his reaction to it. 'But I killed him,' he whispered, unable to comprehend it.

Thaena looked just as miserable. 'Nelkir, he… you've killed before.'

The Forsworn member's death was burnt into his mind, and he still remembered the taste of his blood, and the way it felt like acid on his skin and clothes. _That was different though. _'It was self-defence,' Nelkir protested feebly.

'So was Arras' death.'

'But, he… I knew him.'

'Nelkir,' Thaena said gently.

He ignored her as the weight of his shock came crashing down. White felt trapped, like he was being throttled. Arras' face flashed across his mind, looking sad and poignant. He gave Nelkir a nod of acknowledgement and that pierced the bastard's heart like the dagger had his throat. The blood had run down Arras' _throat_, stark in the grey room, but now it felt like it was filling Nelkir's own, choking him, tightening with inevitable pressure. Then he was swimming; his head felt light and carefree, directly contradicting the thoughts that swirled around inside it. He let out a choking sob, and Thaena tentatively put an arm around him, but he brushed it off.

Without thinking, Nelkir rushed from the room, his emotions hammering away at his mind, leaving him unable to think, or even breathe. He staggered through the stone maze, images of his escape from the Forsworn assaulting his mind accusingly. Blood dripped off his hands, and dark smoke seemed to swirl around him, trapping him. He was hallucinating, and collapsed, calling for relief, but unable to stem the tide of guilt. _Why is it so different this time? I've killed before. I wanted to kill Arras; he deserved to die! _Then a terrible thought struck him. _Maybe that means I deserve to die? I'm a murderer. I killed him… _

_**No. **_

The Voice appeared from nowhere, brushing aside his thoughts, even as White tried to cling to his guilt. _**Leave it. **_

But suddenly he didn't want to; the thoughts were overwhelming. Besides, he needed to suffer, didn't he, for what he did?

_**Arras would have killed you without a moment's guilt. **_

_But does that mean I have to do the same, _he snapped back.

The Voice was momentarily stumped. _**It is stupid to cling to this 'guilt', **_it finally decided. _**You are not responsible. **_

_My arm threw the dagger. _

_**And your nemesis walked into it! How is this so different from that Forsworn you killed months ago? **_

That Nelkir couldn't explain. _I knew Arras… It wasn't the same. The man, was just a thing. _That made him feel even worse. _How could I have thought like that? _

_**So you could understand the evil that resided inside him. It should make it easier. **_

_But it doesn't. _Nelkir cried, but he managed to start pulling himself back together, piece by piece. _It feels wrong, like I stole something. _Thinking about it, killing the Forsworn member had been far worse. It was the Nords that threw them out of their home, and now they were only fighting to reclaim it. By killing that man, he had robbed a family of a father, whatever else he had been about to do to Nelkir, a Nord usurper. It made White sick, and he threw himself against a stone wall, furious. It hurt, but that didn't dispel any of the guilt, or true implications of his actions. _And speaking of consequences… _

His harsh words to Farman and Carrion made themselves known. Nelkir felt a pang of shame, before he heatedly pushed it aside. _It's not my fault, _he thought petulantly. _It's not my fault I'm a bastard. They used me and then abandoned me! Is that my doing? _He thought vehemently. _It wasn't my fault. It wasn't. _Nelkir still burned with resentment for what they had done to him. The look that Marco had given Thaena only made his mood darker, and jealously gripped the sides of his consciousness. _Fucking traitor. _Yet, when he thought of Thaena, it was strange. He didn't feel bitterness towards her, but he wasn't sure where the jealously was stemming from. That, or he didn't want to acknowledge its cause. _She's my friend, _he thought. _Why can't she be Marco's as well? _Simply? Because Nelkir didn't want her to be. It was a selfish thought, no doubt, but very satisfying. The bastard hated the thought of Marco talking to Thaena. Everytime she laughed with him, if she did, it felt like that moment had been stolen from him, but all he could do was eye them with mounting anger and bitterness. Nelkir clenched his fits so hard, blood started running down his wrists, and he collapsed to the floor, spent. _Stolen lives, laughs. A stolen birthright, _he reflected bitterly. _A bastard birth. _

The emotions raging around his conscious faded to a dull throb, and he breathed deeply, feeling sick. Nothing was ever fair for him. _Why am I the one who is always left alone? _The injustice of it all was unfair. Suddenly, a noise broke him from his lethargic moping.

'Shit, what do we do now?'

'Ssshh! Quiet!' It was a pair of voices. Straining his ears, he heard another person shuffling anxiously. 'Do you want them to hear us?'

'Well, what do you suggest we do without Arras?' another voice asked. A wave of remorse raced through Nelkir.

'We don't need him. The Thalmor will be just as content with us, won't they?'

'Ssshhh!'

'We're alone,' the man snapped back. Nelkir sat up, electrified. His blood started pumping through his body at rapid speeds. _Father was always afraid of the Thalmor. 'War is coming.' He used to mutter it all the time. _Standing slowly, Nelkir pressed his back to the wall, and his wounds began to send little shots of fire through his blood and lungs. White ignored it though, transfixed.

'Look, it's a simple operation. They expect us to do it.'

'You know what they'll do if we fail, right?'

The first man sounded worried. 'Fine, fine! Fine, let's do this anyway. Though one day I'm going to wring the neck of that filthy shit who killed Arras.' _Oh really? _Nelkir smirked; in that light, killing Arras wasn't such a bad thing. Even so, just the brief joyful thought made him feel immensely guilty and he strode away, melancholy again, not bothering to listen to any more.

He wandered for a while, glum, wondering what he could do with the information he had just discovered. _I could talk to the Officers of the Blades. _But as soon as that idea came to him, it was replaced by a terrible realisation; _what if they're involved? _That made his skin vibrate and his throat tighten. Anyway, White realised that his word would mean little, regardless of their involvement in the plot. Nelkir cursed his base-born birth yet again with some of the foulest words he could think of, and trudged away, his mind racing.

_I can't trust anyone, _he decided. _And yet, I need allies. People to watch my back. _With grudging resignation, he knew there were only a few people he could even remotely begin to trust, all in Sky Haven Temple. _Shit. _

When Nelkir White entered the medical wing again, his wounds were reasserting their presence, and he was in a thoroughly foul mood. The faces of his 'friends' didn't help much, save perhaps Thaena's, before Marco shot her a grin, that is. Nelkir had no time to waste with pleasant words.

He grimaced. 'We've got a problem.'

**Scooby Nelkir and the Gang are out to solve a crime, kind of. It may not seem like it, but everything Nelkir does has an important effect on the story. Anyway, intrigue, corrupt Blades and the Thalmor finally becoming a threat to Skyrim. Should be fun. **

**By the way, with Nelkir, he is always right. Life is unfair to him. **


	62. The Remains of an Oath

**Sorry this took so long. Been involved in family politics. Anyway, this was interesting, but quite difficult to write, if I'm honest. It's a pivotal point in Thorek's story.**

**The thanks; to Blade Agent99, thanks for the review! I sure hope Jon Snow lives! Nelkir is angsty, that's for sure. King Silver-Blood? Well, you'll see I guess. Not going to rule it out. Oh, and I got your hurry up message! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Glad you liked it. Thorek, Gorm and Djurien's story will be wrapped up in this chapter and Maria will get no punishment, while the Stormcloaks (the group) have little role left… ish. To Silver-Cheetah, etc, thanks for the Story Favourite. To Spartan321 thanks for the Favourite and Story Favourite. Thanks to the Apex Courier for Story Favourite and Qah52 for the whole lot! Thanks to Devils-Butterfly-Maid for the Story Favourite and Follower and affecteffect for the Favourite. Loads of those this time! Thank you all. **

**Bade Agent pointed out that it's the ninth month anniversary of the Season's Trilogy. I think I may write a funny special chapter for the 1 year anniversary, so if anyone is interested in that, tell me! **

**Here we go. **

**Carl Thorek Silver-Blood**

**The forest loomed over everything, **dark and imposing. The inky blackness of the night was lost among the trees, tall and hideous, their branches reaching out to snare an unfortunate traveller. Carl Thorek Silver-Blood eyed it with contempt, his lip curled, as if this was some enemy he had to fight. He sighed and turned, the rope chafing against his neck. Carl Gorm sat on a horse, staring into nature's playground, his face white in the reflection of the moon.

'You ready, Oathbreaker?'

There was no point arguing. 'I was born ready,' Thorek said, then grinned. 'Are you?'

Gorm gave him a sharp look. 'You lead my men into the forest, but if you come out alive, without them or the traitor, I'll have your head.'

Thorek nodded, and turned back to stare into the darkness. 'Maybe I'll escape.'

Gorm smiled thinly. 'You're welcome to try. Even the best of men have died in there.'

'Then you should be safe,' Thorek muttered. He received a sharp blow for that, and it rang in thunderous chorus with the rest of his wounds. _I doubt Father will even recognise me if I get back. _He still remembered his promise to Gorm though; _He'll die by my blade, and no others. _

'Off you go.'

Thorek sighed, and trudged forward. The Housecarl's men followed him, making their way into the trees. Within seconds, the world was gone, replaced by a devilish display of mossy roots, twisting branches shaped like bones, and faces protruded from the bark. Silver-Blood looked around, a black bile-like fear beginning to grasp at the corners of his consciousness. He glanced back at the men, who looked equally wary, fear clear in some of their features. Thorek rolled his eyes, pushing aside his own, and pulled forward on his rope, causing the party to move faster. It unnerved them, he noticed. _Scared as a little girl at a bedding. The lot of them. _

But to be honest, Thorek could understand why. The trees loomed over them, pressing them down, and emitting fear like the leaves that fell from their branches. It reminded Silver-Blood of someone with strangely vivid clarity. He pointed to a particularly big and mangled oak, out of place among the others, and smirked. 'Looks like my Father.'

The captain of Gorm's men didn't appreciate that, and Thorek got a stinging blow to the ear. He rose up though, and continued, a satisfied smile building on his face. _If I'm lucky, they'll abandon me in here. That stuff about the forest was a load of bullshit, from the master himself. _Thinking of Gorm like that made him laugh gently, and the captain tried to hit him again. This time, Thorek raised his bound hands and caught it. His captor looked shocked, but after a second of staring, wrenched back his hand and pushed Silver-Blood forward silently.

They walked for a few more minutes, before Thorek was bored again. The forest became less frightening as he trudged further in, and by now he had already noticed two trees that looked like Father, a weird one that resembled Balgruuf, and a short, stumpy piece of wood that reminded him vaguely of his uncle, Thonar. _I wonder how he took my return to Thegnship. _Thorek made a mental note to send a raven to him as soon as he could, and then turned back to his current predicament. To be honest, Silver-Blood had ceased to worry about his position as a captive, and more the state of his companion's bladders. One unfortunately soul was sweating freely, and looked on the verge of a mental breakdown. The soldier next to him looked more confident, above the dark stain in his trousers, of course. Meanwhile, the captain of their party glanced around anxiously, his jumpy hand gripping his pommel like it was a head he needed to crush. So far, he was doing a poor job of it.

'So,' Thorek began easily, his voice cutting through the night. 'How's everyone feeling?'

The captain gave him a sharp glare. 'Shut your mouth, Oathbreaker.'

'Why? It's not like we're about to be attacked by goblins and trolls.' He glanced movement in the underbrush. 'Are we?' he asked himself, softly.

The captain frowned and followed his gaze, then jerked back. An arrow protruded from his chest, and he fell to the ground as more whizzed from the trees, felling the men around Thorek. Lord Piss tried to draw his weapon, but suddenly steel flashed from nowhere, and his hand fell to the ground. He barely had time to scream before another sword slashed his throat, and he dropped to his knees, dead. Thorek surveyed the carnage, and smiled, drawing himself up, as a masked man stepped forward from the band of outlaws that were surrounding him.

'Djurien, I believe,' Silver-Blood said. 'I'd shake your hand, but,' he held up his bound wrists with an apologetic shrug; 'they're all tied up.' He grinned at his joke, but the outlaw leader didn't seem to find that much mirth in it, instead waving his hand at some of the men, who seized Thorek roughly and dragged him through the trees quickly. Their leader came up behind him, his voice deep and low. It had an unmistakably twang associated with the highborn, despite its lesser-born roughness, which aroused Thorek's curiosity.

'Were you followed?'

'What did you think I was doing? Taking a midnight stroll with my lady lovers?' Thorek scoffed. The leader, presumably Djurien, gave him a black look through the scarf that covered his mouth and nose.

They continued on for a little while, deeper into the forest, before coming to a huge cave. It towered upward, but otherwise looked strangely in place among the depths of the forest. The outlaws entered quickly, and Thorek was shoved after them. The tunnel was dank, but quickly gave way to a large cavern. For a second Silver-Blood was stunned.

A massive waterfall dominated the centre, and it spilled down into a large pool of clear water that glistened in the moonlight, which arched down from a gap in the rocks above. Plants, fresh and bright, covered the ground, and spilled over the boulders that were spread along a path which wound up to the top of the waterfall. Perhaps more impressive was the Outlaws' work.

On top of the waterfall was a fair sized wooden fort, complete with walls and some kind of great hall in the middle. Along the path small watchtowers had been set up, and outlaws manned each one. In the light of the torches, spread out at regular intervals, Thorek could better see the men themselves. They were clad in an assortment of gear, but all with a brown and black sash wrapped around their waist. Only the leader had mail, but leather was abundant, and they all also wore simple brown cloaks, with the hoods pulled down low. Thorek had to admit, despite himself, that he was impressed.

Djurien noticed his awe, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Still, he said nothing, instead leading them up the steep path that twisted round the cave, and up to the fort. Ever since he had heard the name, Thorek had become more and more interested in this outlaw leader, particularly his appearance. He was well-built, and when he lowered his hood to speak with the men on the gate, Thorek regarded him intently, but didn't linger on the details. Blond hair, strong chin, not unattractive, but not devastatingly handsome like himself. Djurien carried himself with some confidence though, bordering on arrogance. Thorek wasn't sure what to think of that.

'Another prisoner?' the man on the gate asked.

'I'm not sure,' Djurien answered loudly, before stepping through. Thorek was shoved after him, and bundled into the hall before he could take a look at the fort proper. The room he found himself in was well lit, but small, and seemed to act as some kind of office for the outlaws. There was a desk, actually little more than a table, Thorek noticed, and a large map of the area covered an entire wall to his right. Djurien sat behind the table, while Silver-Blood was sat before him, and his bonds were cut.

'Dangerous move?' he asked, grinning. Djurien scowled.

'What the hell are you doing here? How do you know who I am?'

Thorek shrugged. 'I'm more interested in how you seem to be able to recognise me.'

'We all know who the Oathbreaker is, Carl Thorek.'

'Carl Thorek?' he asked, pleased by the unexpected deference.

'I always had a healthy respect for my carls, and Housecarls,' Djurien said, with a somewhat resentful glare. 'Speaking of which…' He pulled out a piece of parchment, but only gave it brief glance before setting it down again. 'You've joined your father again,' he announced. 'You betrayed the King. I could execute you for that.'

'I was released from service,' Thorek argued. 'Besides, what right do you have to kill me?'

Djurien smiled thinly. 'We are the only ones who uphold justice anymore it seems.'

Thorek nodded. 'Speaking of Gormless; how did he end up here? How did _you_ escape?'

Djurien shifted in his seat, before looking at the two outlaws guarding the door. 'Get some sleep, lads. I'd rather be alone.'

'Sure,' one of them replied easily, and they left casually, to Thorek's disapproval.

'Lax operation,' he noted, but Djurien ignored his jibe this time. The outlaws seemed to be fairly equal.

'How did I escape?' The leader ran a hand across his jaw, and gave Thorek a look that asked if he really needed to know this. Silver-Blood nodded, and Djurien relented. 'It wasn't special. I just got lucky.'

'How lucky?' Thorek asked sharply.

'The man who captured me, they called him "the Knight", whatever that means. He played with me for a bit. Tortured me, but you see, the King's men don't like to work together.'

'The King?'

'Better not to know. Besides, I don't know much either,' Djurien admitted, before quickly returning to the previous topic. 'You've met Gorm obviously, and Sorli.'

Thorek grimaced. 'Gorm killed Sorli.'

Even Djurien looked surprised. 'Well, at least you know what I mean when I say they don't work together.' He mused for a second, before snapping up. 'In any case, this Knight kept me for information, before letting me go when he realised I knew nothing.' The outlaw smiled. 'Or so he thought. He never bothered to tell Gorm obviously. Then it was a simple matter of breaking out the most loyal of the Ravencrone supporters to join me.' He looked a little melancholy for a second. 'We didn't get everyone, but you see, I was never in that prison.'

Thorek nodded with understanding, before smiling. 'A simple matter of breaking into the prison?'

Djurien returned his grin. 'Gorm is strong, but he can't be everywhere, especially with Sorli in command.'

Thorek leaned back, as the tension in the air gradually dissipated, relief washing through him. 'Well, you can bet that when I don't return, Gorm will take control of the hold.'

Djurien nodded, and leaned forward. 'What about your Father? Wouldn't he attack if you were killed?'

Thorek shrugged indifferently. 'Maybe. Only the Gods know.'

'Inspiring,' Djurien remarked dryly, and for a second Thorek felt like he had to defend his father, but he didn't.

They were silent for a second, and Silver-Blood almost asked about Idgrod, but he held his tongue, fearful of what Djurien would say. Instead he asked; 'What are we going to do?'

'Fight,' Djurien intoned. 'We've had a plan set, for a month now probably. Sorli's death has forced my hand though; if we allow Gorm room, he'll become a threat we can't overcome. So, the night's young, and we'll do it tonight.'

Thorek smiled. 'Perfect.'

**Morthal looked worse at night, **Thorek decided. The houses silhouettes highlighted the way the roofs were falling down, but on the bright side, you couldn't see the shit in the streets. Thorek's foot fell into a deep patch though, and after that he cursed the fucking darkness with all the venom he could muster as they moved forward into the town.

Djurien was leading, but he was cautious, and more than once Thorek had overtaken him only to fall back when he realised he had no idea where he was going. After a bit, the outlaw leader held up a hand for them to stop, and edged towards a door. Three quick taps were sufficient for it to open to the face of an old lady, who nodded and waved them in.

'You have supporters in town?' Thorek asked Djurien.

The outlaw didn't bother to look at him. He just gave a sharp nod and moved to the small window of the house, as he waited for the signal. Djurien had neglected to share most of the details, but Thorek knew it involved a fire at the main guard fort outside town and an ambush. Basically, the time they needed to assassinate Gorm. Silver-Blood slumped down, anticipating a long wait, but it didn't take long before the door opened and a guard came through, his breast emblazed with the hammer of Clan Strongroof, Sorli's own clan. With a rush of fear, Thorek drew an outlaw's sword, lent to him by Djurien until he reclaimed his own, ready to fight, but the leader pushed him aside.

'Are they asleep?'

The guard nodded. 'They are.'

'Who are?' Thorek interjected rudely.

The guard turned to face him sullenly. 'Oathbreaker. What are you doing here?'

'Enjoying the sights,' he smirked, but Djurien cut him off.

'We were waiting for the guards to fall asleep,' he explained. 'The majority are dead to the world. Then we capture them.'

'Capture them?' Thorek exclaimed in disbelief. 'Fucking kill them more like.'

'In their beds?' Djurien asked incredulously.

'No, I thought I'd make it into a tourney melee,' Silver-Blood shot back sarcastically. He turned to the guard. 'Why not get this fucker to do it?'

'I have honour, Oathbreaker-'

'Carl Thorek,' Djurien corrected sharply.

'I'm not about to kill my fellows, _Carl Thorek_.'

'So you'd have us do your dirty work. Soil our reputation?' Thorek hissed. 'Coward.'

'At least I kept my oath.'

'At least I had the balls to break mine. A coward's worse than an Oathbreaker.'

'Then Gorm is better than the lot of you!' Djurien bellowed furiously. 'Shut up, Thorek. You, go somewhere,' he said, dismissing the guard, who gave Silver-Blood a smug look that bit deeply into his pride. Thorek repaid it with twice the bite. 'Come on.' Djurien led them out into the streets again, and back into the shit. Thorek stepped carefully, but his boots always seemed to find the right spot to get covered. By the time they reached the back of the guard barracks, a well fortified wooden building, and out of sight of any guards patrolling the streets, Silver-Blood was fuming, and cursing the gods vehemently. They ignored him, naturally.

'Okay, we need to go over the top, into the window up there,' Djurien said, pointing up. Thorek followed his finger to see a small opening, just above the fortified wooden battlement that formed a small balcony. 'Any volunteers?' Thorek smiled as the men shifted uncomfortably, but he said nothing and Djurien scowled. 'Give me a leg up then.'

The men were only too happy to oblige, and soon enough the outlaw leader was pulling himself into the window. The remaining men shifted nervously as they waited, and Thorek grinned. 'Rough night, huh?' One man gave him a thoroughly undeserved look, dripping with loathing, and Silver-Blood pursed his lips. Suddenly, a clicking came from the other side of the back door and the man scattered, leaving Thorek alone.

'Akatosh above,' he cursed, and drew his sword, holding it easily as he waited to see who would emerge. Djurien poked his head round, and the relief that issued from the outlaws was palpable. 'By Sithis, what's the recruiting policy?' Thorek demanded. 'Cut off your balls. Fucking women.' He pushed past the outlaw leader, into the guard barracks. Rotting wood, low roofs, thin walls; _at least it matches the rest of the town. _The guards were spread out loosely, all asleep, save one body which was sprawled down the steps. Thorek raised an eyebrow at Djurien, who shrugged.

Striding into the room, Silver-Blood unsheathed his dagger, and whipped it across one sleeping guard's throat. His eyes opened, but he made no sound as he choked on his own blood, save a strange gurgling. Thorek flipped his dagger, satisfied, and turned to the next man, who he ended just as quickly. Silver-Blood was about to finish off his third when a hand grabbed his arm. He whipped around, ready to fight, but Djurien's face was visible in the kight of the moon, looking terrified.

'What are you doing?'

Thorek pulled his arm away and sliced steel across flesh again. The outlaw looked scandalised. 'Silencing them.'

'We can keep them alive!' he hissed, but Silver-Blood ignored him.

'What? So Gorm can,' he tugged the blade as it stuck in one guard's neck; 'use them against us.'

'Hostages,' he argued quickly, and Thorek gave him an incredulous look of disdain.

'You are so naïve.' He cut another man's throat.

'Well, at least do it with some reverence.'

Thorek stopped his task to turn, bloody dagger held out. 'Who gives a fuck? They're all dead men. Doesn't matter how we do it; by the end of the day, they're nothing more than sacks of meat and bone, mate.' To demonstrate, he killed another, and they watched as his life slowly seeped away. 'See? Alright?' Thorek shook his head unbelievingly and resumed his task. Djurien was silent for a moment before he spoke again.

'You're a carl. It's just not done.'

'Oh no, Djurien. It's exactly how it's done.' He whipped around to face the outlaw, his tolerance for the other Nord's squeamishness about through. 'Why do you think the King made me his Housecarl?' He waved a hand at the men who were watching the corpses, as if they were about to rise from the dead. 'What do you think they suspect? That it was all happy, peace and rainbows, making friends of enemies? I'm a killer, Djurien. I'm the best at it, and that is why I was Lord Housecarl. That is why I'm a carl, and that,' he pushed the outlaw away; 'is why I'm, still fucking alive, and it's the reason I'm going to stay that way. Get it?' He pushed aside Djurien and quickly whisked his dagger across the next guards he came across, feeling angry and drained. _Why do they all judge, when no one understands. Fucking hypocrites. _

Thorek Silver-Blood finished the task quickly enough after that, and retreated to a corner to wait for Djurien's signal. Again, only a minute passed before he came over.

'That's the signal.' Silver-Blood ignored him, and the outlaw put his hands on his hips. 'Look-'

'Save it,' Thorek sighed without looking round.

'I get what you're doing. You like being the bad guy.' Silver-Blood gave him a sharp look, but Djurien ignored it. 'But honestly, Idgrod loved you. She must have seen some honour in you.'

'Some honour?' Thorek repeated, mulling the words in his mouth. 'I was the Lord Housecarl. When did honour become such an abstract notion for me?' Djurien remained silent. The mention of Idgrod brought back sharp memories, and Thorek realised now was the time to ask the question he had been meaning to ask since he had first arrived in Morthal. 'What happened to the Ravencrone's?'

At this, pain flashed across Djurien's face, and he winced. 'I…' His expression was pleading, and sweat pricked at the top of his forehead, but Thorek grasped it.

'He killed her, didn't he?' Silver-Blood finished coldly. 'Gorm murdered them. Murdered Idgrod.' Djurien's nod was enough.

For a second, he was stunned. He had obviously expected it; how else could Sorli have been Jarl? But the blow was painful nonetheless. It felt like a sword had been driven into his heart, and it twisted, drawing blood, red hot. Thorek felt his limbs charging, his bones tighten. The world spun around him, but then returned with a clarity he had never felt before. Adrenaline hummed through his veins and he stood. Djurien looked surprised.

'What are you doing?'

'I'm going to kill Gorm.'

'But, no, we have to get organised. We can't waste this!'

Thorek ignored him and started walking swiftly through the building, to the door, but Djurien caught him. 'If we go too early, Gorm could raise the alarm, and have the main body of guards here in a moment. We have to wait for the distraction!'

'So you can run off when it's all done?' he sneered.

Djurien's face turned white, and his fists clenched, but Thorek didn't care any more. Gorm's face was burned into his mind.

Silver-Blood swept from the barracks, out into the night air. It hung heavy around him, as if waiting for an event, and his skin crackled with adrenaline. His attention was momentarily drawn to a massive fire, and the distant sounds of battle; that would be the ambush. Thorek snapped away his gaze and strode to the longhouse, where two guards stood, watching the fire. He was on them before they could even speak, and his sword drew red blood, dull in the night, from their bodies. They fell without even raising their swords, but Thorek was just about done with honour now.

He kicked through the longhouse door, and screamed his challenge as fury engulfed his senses. 'GORM!' He looked around the empty room in a mad rage, and turned wildly. 'Come out you bastard!'

Suddenly, the clash of swords sounded in his ears, and he whipped around to see men fighting in the mud outside. Rushing out, he took in the sight, his anger painting everything red. 'GORM!' Djurien was there, his plan in ruins, but Thorek ignored his struggle, turning wildly.

'I'm here, Oathbreaker.' Silver-Blood turned to see him, dressed in a travelling cloak, Thorek's silver sword by his side. 'What have you done?'

Thorek leapt forward without answering, ignoring everything, focused only on Gorm, rage boiling over everything. The Nord caught the blow on Thorek's sword, but Silver-Blood was beyond fear now, and he impulsively rammed his body straight into the bigger man. He staggered and Thorek smashed his pommel across his face furiously. Gorm fell to the mud, and tried to crawl, but Silver-Blood kicked his sword away and slammed down his pommel again, into the other Nord's head.

'YOU KILLED HER!' Thorek roared. He smashed his sword into Gorm's jaw, and teeth flew out. The battle was subsiding around them, and the Housecarl whimpered. 'IDGROD! YOU MURDERED HER!' He hit him again, and the wood that made up the handle of his sword snapped. Thorek threw it aside, and grabbed his own sword. 'TELL ME!' Gorm choked out blood and tried to raise his hand, but with a swift swing, Thorek sliced it off. He fell back, howling into the mud, and Djurien tried to speak. He grabbed Silver-Blood's shoulder, but Thorek lashed out, cutting his cheek deeply. 'Touch me again, and I will kill you,' he whispered softly, rage ripping through all reason, all emotion, leaving only pain, before facing the other Nord again. 'MURDERER! WHY!' He threw aside his sword and started beating Gorm, who was helpless to fight back. The Housecarl screamed, Thorek drove his fist into his face, but then a hand grabbed him. His anger exploding like a hurricane, Thorek threw the man away and drew his sword, slashing it across the man's body. Djurien looked up at him, his face a mask of shock, and staggered back. His mail had taken the worst of the blow. 'I said, don't _touch_ me.'

The outlaw sagged down, pain making his breath come out rapidly, and Silver-Blood turned as Gorm started to speak. His face was a red ruin, and most of his teeth had been knocked out. His cradled his missing hand pathetically, but the sharpest blow came when he spoke. 'I didn't want to kill her. It was ordered of me. Truly…' he coughed up blood. 'I can't... I never meant-'

'Why do I care!' Thorek bellowed. 'You killed her!'

'I'm sorry.'

'I, DON'T, CARE!' He hacked at Gorm's throat wildly, again and again. Blood coated them and he let out a primal scream of rage as the Housecarl collapsed limply, mutilated.

'You're a monster,' Djurien said quietly from behind him.

Silver-Blood turned, his eyes grey and emotionless. 'You know what? I don't care.'

**Yeah, well, there you go. Sorry it took so long. Please review! **


	63. Taking Birthright

**Back to the completely sane Assur Winter! This was a fun chapter, as hopefully you'll see. Not really feeling the love recently, so you don't know how much it would mean to me if you could review! Hell, if everyone that read this just put one word down, that would be fantastic! **

**The thanks; to Sweet Talos, thanks for the Story Follower and Story Favourite! To killerangel048, thanks for the review! To Worn Steel7, thanks for the Story Favourite! To Blade Agent99, for Season's End, thanks for the review! I'm really glad you liked the last line. That's fantastic for me to hear! Also, glad you liked the arrogance line; yeah, Thorek can't comment on arrogance. At all. It may have not been, but we'll see I guess. Aldis had no part in this, so I guess, no. For Dragonblood, thanks for the other review! Nope, Hadvar is not gay. Nope, not at all, so no, they are not. The chapter was just a bit of fun for me, and also it showed what Jon's like among strangers from another viewpoint. To OliverMoss, thanks for the Story Favourite and The77thMaverick, thanks for the same thing! Anyway, thanks everyone! **

**Please, please review! As your best friend, who tolerated yo whining about this girl for months, you were practically stalking her-, sorry, wrong movie. Anyway, please review! **

**Assur Winter**

**Assur Winter was excited. His **blood hummed through his body as he waited for the summons. He hadn't slept at all, which had left his eyes looking red and bloodshot. Birna had tried to coax him to sleep, but he had been too obsessed with today's events to pay her much notice. But now it was time! He had dressed in the best things he could find; grey robes, made of soft wool, with a white cloak hanging from his back; the colours of Clan Winter.

Assur's emotions towards his Father were in disarray; sometimes Winter felt like he was being pulled apart, like his mind wasn't quite right, but magic always helped him to forget. He had debated whether or not to grow a beard, using magic if he had to, just so he would look more mature, but eventually he had decided against it; he was the young competitor._ And the most powerful; always the most powerful. _

Assur let out a bark of laughter as he realised no one could hope to match his power, and when he became Jarl, he would control all of Winterhold. It was almost too good to even consider; he would fix things. With magic at his side, he would make the hold great again, a rival of Solitude and Windhelm. It was just a matter of time. Father would be proud of what he would do, and Skyrim. Magic would be restored, but only among the worthy, naturally. Those highborn and intelligent enough to truly understand how it could shape a world…

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts; it was the man who would lead him to the Archmage's quarters, where the event would take place. Assur squirmed with excitement, but pushed past the messenger and strode towards the tower, ignoring all those in his way. Upon he reached the stairs, Assur gave them a resentful look, as if they dared challenge his presence and after a short glaring match, Winter conceded defeat and started climbing the steps, to the Archmage's door.

'Assur Winter, glad you could finally join us.'

Looking around at them, he realised that everyone else had been summoned before him, and a place had been left between one old wizard and a small, weak woman on the left side. It was round stone table they sat at, yet nonetheless the slight was all too obvious to Assur. Black rage boiled through him, but Winter said nothing. Instead, he stalked to his place and sat, realising that Mirabelle Ervine was the woman on his left, with Tolfdir taking the place of an old man on his right.

'How is your father, Assur?' the old wizard asked nosily.

'None of your concern,' he snapped.

'And yourself?' Mirabelle asked waspishly.

'Still none of your concern,' he barked angrily, feeling trapped. _Like a pair of vultures. That will have to change soon… _

'As you all know, my fellow wizards and scholars,' the speaker announced, 'we are here to decide on the next Archmage of the College of Winterhold. It takes at least two thirds of the room to vote on one candidate, and we will not leave here until such a time. You may however, have time to reflect and think at the side.' The speaker, chosen to have no vote, with impartial loyalties, paused for a second, tapping the table lightly, before continuing in a restrained tone. 'You are fully aware of war here, and outside Skyrim's borders. If this would be a quick decision, then the gods will smile upon us, and Talos may deliver us from our current retribution.' He glared around at them all, as if they were naughty princlings who wanted to draw this out as long as they were able, and sat. 'I want all those who would run for office to announce themselves as we circle.' In many ways, an Archmage choosing was similar to a Kingsmoot, Assur thought. _But then in Skyrim, imagination was sorely restricted. _Winter had studied many kingsmoots; _It will provide me with an edge over my competition for sure_.

The first person to put up their claim was the scholar Nirya, a High Elf. As her race made up the bulk of the Thalmor, she was regarded with suspicion by the Nords present. Assur smiled to himself happily at this reasoning. The speaker acknowledged her claim, and with a flick of his wrist, a name, made of grey smoke, appeared above him. Some of the other mages gasped, and Assur smirked. _They are all so weak. _He had already noticed how the speaker did it; the ground was wreathed in mist, an atheistic thing for the old Archmage, and he simply manipulated it_. Impressive, for a youngling, but not anywhere near as powerful as creating the mist himself._ Next was Faralda, Nirya's rival, another High Elf. Then it was the turn of Mirabelle.

Everyone knew she would put her name forward. As the Master-Wizard, she had acted as the last Archmage's second, and had desired his position since the day she could perform magic, rudimentary as it was. Assur scowled inwardly;

_Why was everyone after power here? _

They were about to pass him over, Winter could tell, but he stood boldly to declare his intentions and claim to the power of Archmage. 'Assur Winter, Thegn of Winterhold.'

The speaker looked less than impartial where he was concerned. 'Can a Thegn vie for the position of Archmage?'

'He can,' Assur replied smugly. 'You'd know that if you had read "_A Grand History of Magic and it's Users"_, by Archmage Calidus.'

'Which page?' he demanded, smiling thinly, his eyes narrowed. It made for an odd combination.

'Page 1,056, Lord Speaker. Do you want to check?' he asked sweetly.

Some of the other mages looked surprised; a few even look impressed, but most glared at him with disapproval.

'How can one so young take such a position!' Nirya protested.

'Archmage Terilios Winter, was… ten when he took the position,' Assur recited. 'He ruled for forty years. Same book, this time it was page 573.' Winter was enjoying showing off. It revealed just how useless everyone else was. _How can no one else remember this?' _he wondered. He thought he knew the answer.

'I'd like to try my hand,' Tolfdir said, from next to Assur. Winter turned sharply to see him, feeling betrayed.

'What have you just done?' he snapped, sitting down.

'Put my name forward,' the old man replied innocently. _You'll pay for that. _

Assur turned back to current events sullenly, noticing his name drifting above the speaker's head in dark smoke. Grinning again, and happy to display his power, Winter flicked his hand. His name burst into bright, clear flames, blowing the other names away. The speaker jerked away from his chair with a cry of fright, before searching for the culprit angrily. Assur raised his hand, again shocking the mages around him. Creating fire was probably far beyond any of their power.

'What was that, Winter?' the speaker asked icily.

'I wasn't sure how clear my name was.'

'Indeed.' He left it there though, probably because he didn't know how to dissipate the fire. 'Now, we will have an ordered discussion.'

Nirya was the first to speak, cutting off Faralda. 'I have been at the college for years, and my mastery of magic is beyond any of you,' she declared arrogantly. Assur smiled; he was content to let her play for now. 'I have travelled far and wide, and obviously I know what this college needs.'

'And yet, you've never reached higher than scholar, have you Nirya?' Mirabelle pointed out.

'Because I didn't want to,' he said loudly.

'More likely, you couldn't.'

'I don't think we should be arguing, ladies,' Tolfdir interjected. 'The Archmage should be wise, and recognise what is best for the college.'

'Recognition,' Nirya shouted out.

'Peace,' Faralda claimed.

'Safety,' Mirabelle argued.

'Magical advancement,' Assur said softly. His voice carried though.

Tolfdir nodded. 'All worthy goals. We will need an experienced elder, or mage, to take on the responsibilities of Skyrim's magical world though. Which is why,' he glanced at Assur apologetically; 'our Archmage would need to be older, and wiser, for now at least.'

'How about more powerful, Tolfdir? The Archmage should push magical boundaries. He should amaze, astound. He should be the most powerful mage in Skyrim, even Tamriel!'

'Only a High Elf can do that,' Nirya interjected. 'I'm the most powerful here. I've trained longest. I was entrusted to the guard the bridge, because I can repulse our enemies.'

'Enemies, Nirya?' Faralda asked, her eyebrows raised.

'Everyone around us. The Nords hate us,' he screeched.

'This not about who hates who,' the speaker hissed furiously. 'We are here to choose the next leader of our _college_.' He glared around at them all. 'Now, can we continue?'

'Yes, Speaker,' Assur nodded. 'We need young blood, to lead the college forward on a,' he avoided using the word 'radical'; the old men hated and feared it; 'new course of enlightenment.'

'What would this new course be, Assur?' Tolfdir asked politely.

Winter licked his lips, caught off guard. Sweat began to prick his brow, and when he began to speak, he stammered. 'Er… new…' his mind wandered to his own discovery with magic, but he didn't want to share his secrets; _they're mine!_ He subsided into silence, but Tolfdir was quick to fill the gap with words that damned Assur.

'Don't worry,' he said kindly. 'It can be hard to speak in front of such distinguished mages.' Winter glared at him with withering heat, angry at being belittled, but Tolfdir had turned away. 'In times of war, my fellow mages, we need stability and calm, if we are to remain neutral in the coming war with the Dominion.'

'Who's to say it would come to war!' Nirya argued heatedly.

Tolfdir looked a little taken aback. 'Well, I don't want to make assumptions, but the Dominion has attacked Cyrodiil-'

'How is this relevant?' the speaker interrupted.

'We need strong, stable leadership is what I'm trying to say. Both Elves and Humans will wish to use our powers for their respective gains. It could lead to massive devastation,' Tolfdir reasoned. _As if any of you would be powerful enough to do that, _Assur scoffed. His chuckle caught the speaker's eye, but he remained silent.

'I think Tolfdir is right,' Mirabelle reasoned. 'And you know what, I don't think there would be anyone better to take the position.' The old wizard looked flattered, but as more mages began to nod, Assur's mind raced with panic. He started breathing heavily as he realised what was about to happen. _That old man can't win. He can't. I'm supposed to! _

'Break!' he cried suddenly. All the mages turned to look at him, and Assur dragged back his composure. 'Can we have a respite?' The speaker nodded stiffly, and Winter raced out of the door, slamming it behind him. Resting his hands on the stone wall opposite him, he closed his eyes, trying to comprehend what was happening. _I can't lose. I was meant to win this. I'm the most powerful; might is right, isn't it? _It was, of course it was. How could people like Tiber Septim or the Reman Dynasty have ever taken over? It was written across history. Realising this, Assur's mind closed in, and his expression darkened. _There's only one way to do this then. _His mind was temporarily disgusted by what was considering, but Assur's willpower forced it through without a vote of motion. His eyes glowing a soft white, he raised his hand to the door. It crumpled in on itself and Assur threw it aside. Striding through the door, his cloak swirling behind him, Winter had the full attention of the mages in the room.

'What are you doing?' the speaker asked, dumbfounded by the sudden turn of events.

Clicking his fingers, his own fiery name burst apart, spraying the speaker, who started screaming in agony. One of the younger mages, quick of thought, swept to his feet. Waving his arm, his chair flew across the room, towards Assur. Without a thought, he raised his hand, and it exploded into white mist, passing through him harmlessly. Excited by his power, Assur strode into the room, flicking his wrist, throwing the entire table over to the right. Most of the mages escaped, but they didn't recover in time to oppose Assur. Turning his right hand into a fist, Winter sent a massive shockwave of energy their way that knocked them off their feet. On his right, some of the mages were connecting minds, to draw more power together, but it was no match for Assur's channelling. They had managed to create lightning between them, but it was _so_ woefully weak. Assur snapped back his hand, and a lightning whip appeared, spinning across the room. Bringing it forward, it destroyed their bolt in a blast of energy, throwing them back too. Assur Winter smiled, and stepped forward as they all lay groaning around him, save Tolfdir, who stood, stunned. Flicking both his hands, two people were dragged on their knees across the ground towards him. One was Tolfdir, the other was Faralda.

'This, Altmer, is true power.' Assur's voice was high and sharp, cold and icy. It rippled across all sound in the room, yet was still very much his own. The elf cowered. Grinning with savage pleasure, he tied up in icy ropes. She let out a gasp as they chilled her, but Assur ignored the elf, turning to face Tolfdir. 'You betrayed me. I was supposed to be Archmage.'

'What do you mean?' he said weakly. His brow was beaded with sweat.

Assur turned to the mages, all hurt and scared, opening his arms wide. 'In the case of a candidate not being able to continue, what do we do?' Opening his palm, a force began to crush Tolfdir's throat. He tried to draw breath, but instead spluttered blood. He clawed at his throat, his mouth open wide, trying to suck in air, but blood bubbled out instead. He was dead within seconds. 'We choose an alternative,' he finished, arrogant in his power. 'So, votes for Assur Winter?'

**You wanted another magic duel; Assur against about fifteen other mages. How's that for power? If you liked that, please review! Things are going to heat up, so I'd really appreciate your reviews and support going forward. Please? **


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